


Ends and Means

by akitsu_47



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Best Friends, Birthday, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Long-Distance Relationship, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akitsu_47/pseuds/akitsu_47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of bottling up, Dirk is forced to deal with the Jake thing. But Jake might not be as oblivious as he may seem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dirk: (Un)buckle up.

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from [my tumblr](http://akitsu-47.tumblr.com/post/17524527784) in an attempt to go on with this, though every chapter should sort of be auto conclusive.

The thing about Roxy, you’ve learned very early on, is that she’s probably the most resourceful person you know. So when you find a six-something feet tall mass of muscle nodding at you to go in, you cannot say you’re surprised and mean it.

As you weren’t with the proposal to go to the club from the get go. You don’t really file yourself a genius for guessing Roxy would have loved to spend her 19th birthday out on the town, with loud music blaring and booze at the ready. You figure Jane and Jake could have expected that too, and probably did, by the way the petite brunette had bitten her lip worriedly, but offered she’d stay sober to drive, because someone should, right? Jake had only grinned, rolling the cake fork in his mouth, eyes alight: you could see that frigging spark in his eye; like the one that crazy adventurer dude had before he drunk his own urine in the desert. And while you mentally cringed at the comparison made just after having ingested ridiculous amounts of home-made cake, your gag instinct never triggered. Partly because, just like with the crazy adventuring in itself – you could never relate to it. And partly because Striders never got sick over a mental string of thoughts – only sick raps allowed.

It had been about a year since Roxy moved here to Houston. Not exactly in your neighbourhood, but a manageable ‘hanging out once a week’ distance. You grew close with her as well. People that have a problem usually do, don’t they? She became someone you could talk to, while you became one of those resources you were acknowledging she has which, in itself, was nothing new. It just now encompassed partying with her and driving her home safely afterwards. Which you can’t say you really mind. It’s a fair trade, you love the living hell out of her.

So, of course, when her pleading eyes turned at you, you nodded, once, and it was settled. She looked far too pleased of herself, and she wasn’t even drunk yet – which made you frown ever so slightly behind the safe confinement of your glasses. Her eyes slipped to Jake, who had by then thankfully stopped giving that fork an unconscious blowjob, and you could feel a sense of dread in the pit of your stomach.

Which is why you catch her wrist in the club, pulling her close to speak in her ear and god bless the loud music tuning you out from Jane and Jake even if they’re literally a foot away in the crowded place.

“Tell me you’ve got no _special plans_ ,” you demand.

“My plans are always special,” she pouts, her tone mock-insulted, but she can’t hide the grin.

Rolling your eyes is a little bit beyond you, so you just keep your voice even. “I’m over it, it won’t happen.”

“Oh Dirk, honey,” she croons, loudly now, patting your cheek dramatically, and both of your friends look at you, smiling two ecstatically distracted smiles. “You need a drink! On me!” And she drags you over to the shank, manoeuvring through the crowd.

Letting her have the round, literally, you turn, arm wrapping around Jane to queue her in line behind Roxy where you can protect her from the dancing bodies and she goes, smiling. You give Jake a glance, but he’s beaming back, that adorable buck-toothed grin in place, as if to tell you he’s fine. And you’re prone to agree. He’s probably as tall as you now, with a nice muscle padding built over time and from necessity… and while your glasses have allowed you to sneak appreciative glances, you’re still not exactly supposed to do that, you settle. 

It is Saturday though, and the song blaring overhead is ridiculously popular. Halfway there, you feel his fingers looping onto your belt to hold on. You don’t turn, of course. It’s not like he hasn’t grappled at your belt before when wrestling, and it wasn’t like he hasn’t ever done it platonically. He’s a little bit weird like that, a little bit uneducated about personal space and a little bit naïve about it, but you suppose it’s what fucked you up in the first place. Now if only it’d fuck you up literally too – except no, you’ve given up on that, remember?

Yeah, you do remember. You replay the whole fucking conversation in your head as Roxy gets you booze. Jake chooses a Caipirinha, Roxy a Pina Colada. Jane wants blueberry juice because she’s driving and you want a simple rum-cola because shut the fuck up, Roxy, it tastes good. She laughs at you and pecks you on the cheek while Jake suddenly comes tugging at her sleeve, pointing at a ridiculously blue glass a guy a couple of feet away had just received. But your orders had been placed, and he gets over it, sipping the lime just as enthusiastically.

“No, it’s not hard living on my own, all things considered, “ Roxy is explaining over the music, and you let her drone on to Jane. Jake gets his elbow on the shank beside you and you let him lean on it, even if that brings you closer than what you’re completely comfortable with. But you’re prepared; you know you can deal with it, you have, for years, on the few times a year he and Jane come visit.

Thing is, you told him you loved him. You were rapping at him on pesterchum, and he was amused, encouraging you, ecstatic, and you kind of… slipped. He didn’t even think twice about it, though, he simply said he loved you, too, bro, no one has sick rhymes like you. And no compliment ever broke your heart quite like that one.

You never talked about it again, though you sort of stopped making any puns in that direction and called it ‘growing up’. You can’t even count the times AR called you a fucking coward, but for one thing, you gave the guy a lot of openings, the kind even a socially isolated jungle boy should have picked up, with all the sexual tension behind your words, the little slips, the pampering, the way you lavished him with attention. It had been there for six years – if he wasn’t picking up clues, then the only logical course of action was to let it be already. Roxy and AR could judge you all they wanted, but there was such a thing as male honour, and you, as a Strider, fucking well liked to keep it as intact as can be. You were not going to ruin a friendship just because your hormones insisted he’d look good all over you, under you, in your bed, in your heart, eating breakfast together, and you’d do up his tie because he’d never get it right himself and shut up, no, you’re done thinking about this.

“You all right there, old chap?” he leans close, to ask over the music, and there’s a scent of lime on his breath.

“Yeah,” you say, shrugging, relaying into the closeness. He nudges you, playfully, with a grin, and you nudge him the fuck back because he started it, grinning too. It’s okay, really, like this, with his hand on your back and his forehead bumping into yours for the hell of it. You sling an arm around his waist and pull him into a one-armed bro-hug. It stings a little, how you wish you could do more, kiss his temple because he’s adorable, slip your hand into his back-pocket and give his ass a squeeze just to tell him it’s the most premium behind in the whole club, run your fingers through his hair to smooth it up… but you’ve never been selfish, you don’t mind just receiving what he’s willing to give you.

“Are you guys done?!” Roxy’s shouting at you now, “this is my song!” And she’s already pulling a slightly stumbling Jane along, who seems to try and reach for you as though to save her. You hear Jake laugh from beside you. Your eyes fix into his, so green you want to drown in them. He tips his glass to yours and you’re suddenly racing who’s going to finish his drink first.

You do, of course, he had half of his cocktail left, he chokes a little, grins through it, barely. “Glad we hadn’t had a bet going,” he manages.

You just grab him by the elbow to pull him along. “We can always have a dance-off, English.”

Roxy isn’t hard to find, moving like she had been born to do it. It’s the way she is with most things, you muse, included drinking. She keeps bringing drinks, her glass always full, but you stop after the third, and Jake gets his own and yours down in a swig, one after the other.

It’s obvious he’s letting loose. His moves are unconventional, not for show. He moves like he means it, air-guitars and the eventual finger-pistols included, and you’d call him a dork if his hips weren’t… so tuned in. His body’s one taut, flexing pulse right next to yours, and fuck you can’t tear your eyes away. You mentally pat yourself on the back for not taking the fourth drink, you’re not completely sure you would have kept control.

It’s kind of like a trance. You try not to notice him, spin Jane around a couple of times to let her loosen up and she laughs adorably. Roxy hugs you all and yells you’re her best friends in the whole fucking world at a point. The lights are everywhere and you just close your eyes, let the beat guide you, take you, lull you, drive you wild. You barely register it shifting, and for once, you don’t think about the tempo of the tunes, because you feel it in your heart, the bass in your hips. It’s bliss.

And then suddenly the song shifts into this cheesy corny tune about asses that everyone seems to be nuts about. Roxy starts laughing and so does Jane – you open your eyes to find Roxy pretending to bend over while Jane makes a show of seemingly spanking her. You sway your head at their antics, but your cool façade doesn’t last much. Arms slip around your waist and you’re being pressed upon from behind. You turn sharply, only to relax at the sight of Jake, grinning from behind you. You faintly realize the lyrics overhead are still going on about asses, that this is probably a joke to him, too. His hips are on time, as are yours, and fuck it if you’re going to let an ironic situation slip like this.

You grind back, you’ve got the moves. He makes a noise of surprise, thumbs curling into your belt loops, as he eggs you on, presses you into him with a chuckle. You slide against him in return, the material of your black jeans creating friction all over his lap, and the girls cheer, laughing.

You love it. You’re glad you’re not drunk enough to not remember this later because fuck it, Jake grinding against you is pretty much something you’ve wanted for years, and something you feel you’ll imagine every time you’ll hear this stupid song from now on. You’re fucking buying it the moment you get home.

The song blends away, into another, long overdue, summer hit. This one has something like a dance to go with it, you remember faintly, and Roxy promptly tries to do it, with various levels of success, while Jane tries to copy her, off-tact. Jake doesn’t know it either, you think, because he sort of just lingers behind you, as though he forgot his hands on your hips, and you’re not stupid enough to remind him.

He stays where he is the entire song, hips just following the beat against yours, and you let him, it’s fine. He’s probably drunk and a little dazed and you’re not complaining. You don’t even know how long you let him stay there, two songs, three? Before you can feel his forehead on your shoulder, hot, moist, his hair tickling your neck. You frown, straining your neck to see if he’s okay, though he shifts with you, leaning in, nose nuzzling into your shoulder.

You close your eyes and lean back against him. You’ll feel like shit again in the morning, that stupid pining over him awake again because of his drunken haze, but you need this. You need to feel his hands splayed on your hips, his breath hot on your shoulder and his heartbeat blending with the base against your back.

You loose track of time like this, so when you open your eyes next, Roxy and Jane are nowhere to be found. You glance around quickly, making Jake stir. You’re kind of worried Roxy was sick or something and, much as you hate to do it, you start detaching yourself from him, turning to tell him you need to go check.

But when your eyes land on him, it’s your stomach that does not a flip, but a full fucking pirouette. The song is picking up again, his hips have the beat nailed down already. He’s out of breath, glasses askew, flushed, a little bit dazed and he wants you back because he’s leaning into you… and you’re leaning right back, reaching right for his hip, as you guide it closer. His arms settle around your neck, and you realize it’s for leverage a little too late – because he grinds right onto you.

Stunned, your body reacts, grinds back, never missing a beat, but your mind takes its time to follow. By the time it catches up with you, you’re grinding for good, letting him ride it like he means it, and fuck his hot breath in your ear is maddening.

You know he’s drunk, you know he doesn’t party that often, you’re hyper aware of everything. You know that if he remembers in the morning, you’ll tell him it didn’t happen, he was a ‘right standup gent the whole evening’ and none shall be the wiser… you also know you won’t try anything beyond this, because you can’t, because you can’t take advantage of him… but fuck, you can, and do, let him take advantage of you. He moans in your ear then, and the friction’s getting him hard against you, and you hard against him, but you can’t stop. You grip his hips and your body becomes a tool, meant to make him feel good, his hushed, breathy moans the only lifeline you can grasp.

It’s maddeningly perfect, guiltily fulfilling and just a breath away from what you need to get off. Or what he needs to get off. You let him play, let his arousal glide against you, then tease him, just pressing him too close to grind until he calms down from the rush… only to pick the rhythm up again, and he’s got it, he follows, he wants it.

He’s hazy, breathless, you’re driving him wild. He’s beyond any semblance of control, his fingers claw blunt nails into your moist shirt and, dimly, you manage to think this is as close to having sex with him as you’ll ever get. It’s already more than you dared hope for to begin with.

He’s growing frantic, missing beats, and the next moan he gives sounds a lot like your name. You can feel he’s close, he won’t last, and you’re not stopping him. You thrust right back against him, head swimming with want, with wanting to make him, feel him come, because of you. 

You feel it when it happens. His hips lock underneath your palms, a shudder running through him. He doesn’t make a sound, just grips your shoulders in a vice-like grip, his teeth sinking into the tight line of your neck.

You hold him, just press him to you, let him breathe himself through it. You’re so fucking hard you think you’ve stretched your jeans permanently, but you can’t bring yourself to care because you’re too busy wrapping your mind around the fact that you have a lap full of a sexually sated Jake English.

He clings to you for the next song, and you let him, you lull him off beat. You both kind of need it, he to regain his body coordination and you to concentrate on calming your raging erection. The more your blood flow regains its regular function of making your brain work again, the more you’re sort of scared he’ll remember this, or that he’s still aware of everything, and if he is, what could that mean? Regret pangs at you, for not stopping, but fuck it, you’ll word your way out of this. For what it’s worth, he’s started it. You can say you hadn’t gotten laid in a while (or in, well, ever, actually, much as the relationship with your hand is alive and blooming), that it’s a dude-thing, the balls weren’t touching, no homo. Everything’ll be cool.

Everything being cool? … you suddenly remember about Roxy, feeling like a dick for getting distracted in the first place. You glance over the crowd, staring down a couple of people who seem to be giving you looks. You don’t think this was a gay club? You’re not sure. You don’t even really care. After the show you two must have given, it’s probably better if you never come back anyway.

You notice Jane at the shank, half-supporting Roxy to lean against it, passing out.

“I think we need to go,” you speak to Jake’s ear, reluctantly. He nods against your neck. You hold him there, just breathing, just soaking it all in for a moment longer… end then you man up and lead him back to the girls.

As it turns out, they’re not in that horrible a state. Roxy, fastened into the front seat, keeps calling everyone nicknames and slurring her words together, though you can all make out her asking if she can spank Jane’s ass some more later, since it’s her birthday, at least four different times. Each time anew, Jane sways her head at her, eyes on the road, and tells her to stop being a Silly Roxy, that it’s past 3AM and it’s no longer her birthday officially. And, punctually, Roxy insists it is her birthday until she goes to bed, and proceeds to point out that she never will! But is dozing off on the seat moments later.

Jake is slumped against your side since the moment you get him in the back seat. His hand slips over your thigh and picks at the inner seam of your jeans, as you try to keep your head levelled enough to manoeuvre Jane home. You think he’s doing it absently, half in his sleep, but when the car parks and you glance down at him, his eyes are open, watching his own hand, as though he’s been awake and aware the whole time. You’re no more than buzzed yourself, so he should be coming about soon, you realize with a sinking feeling of dread.

“C’mon, Jake,” you usher him, “let’s get you tucked in.”

He listens to you, lets you help him out of the car and up, but gravitates onto your shoulder before you can straighten him up, and you’re left hugging him against your side, with his arms around your waist. You feel a blush creeping on, because you know Jane’s watching, and your eyes, still shielded by the shades, glance over quickly. She gives a small, exasperated but adoring sway of the head at the state Jake’s in, and leans over Roxy a little to speak up at you. “Call me when you get up, I’ll whip something together for a late lunch.”

“Yeah, cool. Thanks,” you manage.

She rolls the window back up and is driving on, and you’re left wondering if she knows, if Roxy told her, and if this is even relevant because you need to get Jake upstairs, maybe even into the shower. But not together. No, you think that would have been pushing your luck.

You let him lean against the back of the elevator as you idly flip the keys in your hand. He watches the floor, frowning slightly and it’s ringing alarm bells in the back of your head, but he doesn’t say anything. He leans into you on the trek to your door, and you let him, catch him against you, holding him. His shirt feels cold under your fingers and you have a feeling your own is clinging to you in a similar fashion, but more than a shower, you find yourself hoping he doesn’t catch a cold or something. Which is probably a stupid thing to think, considering he lives in the middle of nowhere, alone, and is exposed to hell and high water daily.

You flick your wrist twice and the door gives. Your eyes feel better away from the neon light in the hallway, and you lean back enough to lock the door behind you. Your blinds are all still up, the lights from the city and the skyscrapers all around give it all a faint glow. Jake leans closer to you, stumbling, and you pull him in a hug.

You kind of feel like you’ve fucked it up, badly. But you also don’t know how to deal with it if he’s not telling you what the hell he’s thinking of. You might as well be a mastermind string puller, but these strings were sort of not in your plan to be pulled. And so you swallow, close your eyes against his shoulder and just hold him, rubbing soothing circles into his back.

“Shower?” you suggest. “Do you feel sick?”

He sways his head no against your throat. “Bed.”

You both stumble into your room, and you kick a couple of smuppets aside from where you could slip on them, and lay Jake down on your bed. He sinks in readily, with a sigh, like it’s a cloud pulled down from heaven. You perch yourself at the foot of it, looking off to the corner where Squarewave sits, deactivated and awaiting repairs, as you pull Jake’s legs in your lap to undo his shoes. You can’t really help wondering if you’ll ever get to see him sprawled on your bed again, or if he’ll trust you like this. You look along the length of his exposed calves, shapely thighs… the juts of his hips underneath those probably ruined shorts. It feels surreal that you’ve had him grind against you… that you made him cream his pants on the dance floor and he liked it.

You absently slip his untied shoes off. The first one hits the floor with a thud, as you glance up to notice he’s watching you, perched against your pillows and stray smuppets, silent, and while he always wore his heart on a sleeve where you could read it like an open book, now you really can’t tell what the fuck he’s thinking.

You linger, biting the inside of your cheek, both shoes in hand. He startles you, when he goes for his own belt, suddenly. You clear your throat, and slip off the bed. “I’ll put the shoes away,” you inform him.

Setting them beside the entrance, you idly take off your own, too, just taking a moment to collect yourself. It’s okay, you have a plan, remember. You figure you should probably take a blanket and take the couch, because if he remembers stuff in the morning, he might promptly freak out. Then again, this is Jake English, he’s probably faced worse and lived, but the very idea of being filed among those things is as worrying as it is possible in the given moment. Still, you’re his best bro. You need to get him placed and tucked the fuck in, you owe him as much, you settle.

When you slip into the room again, he’s still fumbling with his shorts, a little out of breath. You hesitate a moment, not even long enough to question your motives, before you walk over, sitting beside him and gently pushing his hands away. His belt comes off easily under your nimble fingers. Loop’s out, a tug, and it’s done. You pop the button next, too tired and just soaking it all in as it comes along because this is still too good to be true. You’re slipping Jake’s shorts off, in your room, on your bed – and by now, you think you have enough fap material to last you at least another 6 years—

But then he moans, hips thrusting up against your hands. Which frieze, along with the rest of your body, and you glance up, up into his face which you know is flushed, even in the poor lighting. He watches you back, thrusts his hips again and you can feel him getting hard again right into your palm.

You slip the zipper down, the slow rasp of metal clasps barely heard through the echoing of the wild beats in your ears. You slip his shorts down his legs… and you knew his boxers were blue, you’d seen when he bent over… but fuck no, you can’t do this. Not when he’s not sober, not when you both haven’t digested what the hell happened on that dance floor and possibly not before you ask Roxy if she had anything to do with this. You hate not having a plan.

He gives you one, though. He arches slightly, tighs falling apart and palms his straining erection through his boxers. “Fuck me, Strider,” he breathes and your brain implodes.

You open your mouth to tell him to stop it, no, this is the booze talking, chill the fuck out, but nothing comes out. Except your blood rushes south because there is no way you wouldn’t get hard watching Jake handle himself like that where you can see it, where you’re meant to see it, and asked to do something about it.

“You’re drunk,” you manage, but your eyes are glued to him, and it’s beyond you how the hell you’re ever going to sleep on this bed again without learning to handle blue balls for the rest of your life.

“Not quite as much as you’d think,” he gets out, though doubt is starting to claw at him at your lack of response. He closes his thighs, rolls sideways, his nose burying into your pillow, and you see him take a deep breath, his hand battling to slip underneath the elastic band of his boxers.

Your cock strains against your zipper, and it’s maddening how much you fucking want him. He moans, muffed, into your pillow, and you have to admit defeat. Your hand reaches down, fast, pulls your own belt and pants open. You kick them off, hastily, and he looks over when your buckle hits the chair, and just in time to see you crawl over him, eyes hazy. He uncurls under you, lets you settle your weight down, pulls at you even, and you loose your balance, barely catching yourself with a elbow planted on the pillow beside his head.

He’s not wasting time though, he presses his hard length against yours and you feel your toes curl from the sensation, from everything, from having him pinned down, to seeing him want you, knowing you made him come and him want it again. And so you press back, curling over him.

“You better remember asking for this in the morning, bec-” you mumble, but he cuts you off, hand planted firmly at the back of your head and his lips firm, but nibbling at yours. It takes you a stunned moment to realize this is the first time you’ve kissed. You open up to him, sink into him, and he still tastes like lime and rum.

Of course you don’t take him up on the offer. You don’t have condoms, it’s not like you had any kind of hope this would happen. You do have lube, because you kind of bought it once to see if it really made a difference when you jerked off, but you’re pretty sure it’s in the bathroom somewhere. And you’re not half as irresponsible to use anything else, like mechanic oil or something, that can’t be healthy…

But it’s probably for the best. Because you can’t really think straight when he’s kissing you out of his mind. You barely can register his buck-teeth… you lick them when you remember how much you thought they’d be prominent, and he moans in your mouth, flicks his tongue at yours, and you plunge deep again, pulling his glasses off.

He gets yours off, too, his hips thrusting up to meet yours and it’s not fair how hard you are, and how hot he is, and how insanely much you love him. He pulls his boxers down and you don’t look down, you just pull yours down too and shit- skin. Skin against skin. You can’t stop yourself.

He brings his knees up around your thrusting hips and the bed dips, strains, rebounces, springs creaking. He’s gorgeous, out of breath, strained, shirt bunched up and hair messed up. You want to kiss him enough times to make up for the six years you’ve been waiting to do this, and he lets you, welcomes you, moans into your mouth. It’s stupid, and brilliant, and he’s an asshole but so are you. You want to ask him about a million things but the first that comes to mind is to come for you, because you’re about to fuckin’ explode.

You can’t voice it in words. You tear from his lips, loosing rhythm as you claw at his shoulders to hold on. He tries to help, bucks up, fails to match you, and you groan, because you’re close, and because you want it to last. Your straining cock catches in his underwear, springs free and you’re coming against his hip with a gasped curse. He groans, claws at your shoulders and arches off the bed, rutting against you desperately as you shudderingly ride off your release.

“Frig-“ he mutters, against your shoulder, holds his breath and locks in place. You press your lips to his jaw as he struggles to remember to breathe again, one cell coming alive at a time underneath you, and your mismatched breathing echoes through the room.

-

You wake up about four hours later, because you never lowered the blinds and your eyes are kind of a bitch with light. He wakes up when you stand up, and you end up pulling him up and into the shower, much to his protests. He does admit he feels better later, when you both curl in bed again, blinds down, and kiss each other asleep.

-

You wake up again at about four in the afternoon, to your ringtone, and you have to get up to retrieve it from where you’ve thrown your pants, as buck naked as you’ve crawled to bed. Jake merely turns over in bed, curling to face the wall.

“Are you boys all right?” Jane wants to know.

“Yes…?” you offer, then quickly remember yourself and your manners. “You two? Is Roxy okay?”

“She’s well enough to wonder about your love life improvements,” Jane chuckles, and you’re sort of really glad no one can see the blush creeping slowly across your ears and cheeks. “What should I tell her?”

“Tell her thanks for wondering,” you deadpan.

You hear Roxy in the background threatening to chop your dick off if you didn’t put it to good use, but you’re quick to change the subject. “When should we be there?”

“Uh, seven maybe? I’ll make soup and something light to go with it.”

It’s not until you crawl back into bed, and carefully spoon up to Jake’s curled form, that you realize he’s awake, his heartbeat racing. In retrospect, you should have gotten out of the room not to wake him by talking, but you’re not sure where he dropped your shades last night and you didn’t get the blinds down in the rest of the flat.

The tense silence stretches for several moments, and with every single one you feel progressively more nervous, despite knowing you’d eventually have to wake up and talk about it in some way or another. 

“You’re a bloody idiot,” Jake says finally, softly. “When were you charting this glorious confession of yours to happen?”

“Never,” you deadpan. His thumb rubs against your arm, gently, as if encouraging you to elaborate, but you don’t. You feel strangely vulnerable.

“You came on to me only to take a rain-check for bolly _never_?” He sounds accusing now. “I was pissing my skivvies in fear I’d read you wrong, would have still been at it, had Roxy not flat out told me.”

“You didn’t seem interested.”

“Well I bloody well was. _Am_.”

“Good.”

He digs the blunt nail of his thumb into your arm. It doesn’t really hurt. No, in fact you feel your lips stretch in a smile.

He turns then, up on one elbow, pulls at the covers to rearrange them and you can’t tell if he’s blushing his ass off or not, with the blinds down. But he leans down and kisses you into the mattress and you end up late for dinner anyway.

The soup is good, but you could punch Roxy’s lights out for the amount of snickering she submits you to if she wasn’t stuck with a nasty hangover, a girl and just about your best friend in the whole fucking world.


	2. Less Than Smooth Sailing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk and Jake glide over the embarrassments of a forming, long-distance relationship. But they're not the only ones straining to adapt to new circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments! <3 So glad you approve, hah. It's getting progressively harder to write as Dirk, he's so stoic.
> 
> I should warn you there's some brokenhearted Roxy in here. :( I apologize in advance. She'll be okay, I promise.

The thing about Jake, you realize slowly over the span of the next couple of months, is that he's much more of a dork than what you had always initially thought. Though you're compelled to think your lack of foresight could be attributed to your crush on him clouding your perception. But being bothered by it would be a ‘pot calling the kettle back’, and you’re pretty sure he knows.  
  
You’re discussing the new upcoming superhero movie online, over pesterchum, and you get his proverbial premium behind handed to him, because he’s got opinions, while you have statistics about movie sales and public perception. It’s something you do for a living now, handling your brother’s legacy. You’re still occasionally asked for an interview and invited to minor events by his movie-business friends, though you mostly decline as politely as can be. Spotlight’s not for you, you like it there, in the shadows.  
  
He sulks a little, doesn’t respond, and you inwardly cheer for having won. Again. Some things never change, you suppose.  
  
It’s then that you get a sudden prompt for a video chat on Skype. You forgot you were even logged in on there, too.  You click the ‘answer with a webcam’ option quite confidently; there’s nothing he can say to your face that you can’t handle him back on a silver platter, sliced and diced, you’re just smooth like that. He knows this, so you’re mildly interested in his, in your opinion, useless antics.  
  
You hear him a second before the cam loads, a grunt. You barely have time to register it before the video clears out. He’s straightening up, in his chair, hair tousled, as he pulls his shirt the rest of its way off his arms, lets it drop to the floor.  
  
“I kindly invite you to repeat yourself, Strider,” he says, and his accent is thick, instantly triggering a thickening reaction in your pants.  Oh how you wish you were kidding about that.  
  
“Do I need to drag you into the shower and clean your ears for you, English?” you drawl, easily leaning back, grateful your shades can hide your roaming eyes, “because I’d rather be shoving my fingers into a whole other pair of orifices.”  
  
His adorable buck-teeth catch his lower lip for a moment, you can see him hesitating. He’s gorgeous like this, just a little leaned forward so you can see the full dip of his collarbone, the curve of his shoulders, the wiry, but padded pecks and it must be chilly because his nipples are going rigid… just like your cock. You spread your legs underneath the table lazily, to give yourself more room.  
  
He lets his lip go and it yields forth, making your stomach clench in the best of ways – god you want to kiss him halfway to Mars, call NASA, and he better be landing onto your dick, touchdown.  
  
“Existentialism plots aren’t shitty any less than what the rest of the industry has to offer. And I’ll be damned if I’ll indulge you in whatever shenanigans you wager I’m up to before you acknowledge my bloody opinion.”  
  
You lift your eyebrows at him, crossing your arms behind your head slowly, taking your time.  “I acknowledge it just fine,” you drawl, “I’m merely challenging it. No need to have a stick up your premium behind, there’s something much more pleasurable you could have stuffed in there.”  
  
He gives a chuckle, low, his cheeks darkening in a subtle flush under all that tan. “You’re kindly inviting yourself up there, I see.”  
  
“No, you invited me up there, remember?”  
  
You can see him squirm, shift in his seat, and you let your arms drop, your hand is warm against your thigh, heating up further the tented bulge in your pants, a thumb’s reach away.  
  
He does remember, of course. He was drunk, hard, with his pants down and palming himself through his boxers as he asked you to fuck him. You weren’t prepared then, embarrassing as it is to admit it, but it’s not like he gave you any reason to be, beforehand. Nevertheless, it’s not like either of you could complain about not getting off, several times, in that weekend alone. And it’s not like your body can’t recall it, how his cock felt against your hand, how he rutted against you, moaned just so…  
  
“What if I’d like to tousle your salad?” he offers, scoots back just a little so you can see his hands undoing the belt of his shorts and your cock throbs, you have to palm it. He’s flushed and you can see gears in his head turning underneath the false cockiness, pun intended, because neither of you’ve ever done this over the internet quite like this.  
  
“That’s  a feat that requires a right kind of topping,” you drawl back, and he giggles, honest to whatever god up there giggles, and it’s short and stark and nervous as fuck, but he pulls the belt off and kind of looks up at the screen.  His eyes don’t match your gaze because the camera’s a bit higher and he doesn’t have the clarity of mind to look up as you do, but he’s blushing like a girl and it’s a dusting over his cheeks that could rightfully put any sunset to shame. You have to smile back, he’s kind of a 9th wonder of the World, right after your brother’s movies.  
  
His hands hesitate, nail picking at the button of his tented shorts and you watch him, stiffening, calculating. It’s amazing how transparent he feels like this, how much you can tell he wants to try it, but also how much it’s embarrassing him. You hate seeing him torn, unsure – not when you can help, and it’s not so much about how swollen he makes your dick, it’s got to do with a whole other organ.  
  
“Hey,” you call him, and he looks up at the screen again, in time to see you lean over, adjust the cam down where he can see your lap, and the hand in it, thumbing along the seam of your jeans. His lips part slightly, but nothing comes out, the only indication the cam’s not frozen is the sound of him letting a breath go, hard and shuddering.  
  
Cam in place, you reach for the keyboard, briefly, before your thumb hits enter and you’re recording. You don’t want to miss this and- fuck it. It’s not like anyone but you’ll ever see this again. You’ll tell him later, you settle. “We’re doing this, man,” you inform him, your own fingers digging against your trapped erection more firmly, and his eyes follow, down, up, then down again, zipper peeling open.  
  
“Golly… yes. Making it happen…” he agrees, teeth digging into his lower lip to stiffen a smile, and it’s maddening how much you want to kiss him. His zipper glides down and he's reaching in, the coarse trail of dark hair leading your eyes down and making your memory flare, how thick his dick was, how it stood up, laid back against his hip and shit you wish you had sucked him off that weekend, too.  
  
He’s hunched over as he reaches in, his breath a shudder again and you think you can feel it on your skin, breaking in Goosebumps. You’re not hunching over for shit, fuck that – you’re leaning back against your chair, slumped to the edge of the seat where your thighs lay splayed for him to see. Your hand’s a persistent, but slow pressure against your length, heat radiating through your tented boxers. And he’s looking, still biting his lip, chewing it, and you can’t even tell him how much it’s turning you on. “Nice view, there,” you manage instead, because the tension is thick and you’re both too nervous for absolutely no fucking reason. You’ve both gone beyond this before in person.  
  
He chuckles, so brief it’s nearly a snort, and it seems to give him the boost he was waiting for, because he hooks his fingers at his waistband and you see more of those raven coarse hairs as his cock stretches the pulled material, barely letting you see the fleshy curve of it. It’s maddeningly teasing, and you grip your own length, hard, swallowing.  There’s something pulling at your heartstrings as you faintly realize he knows what he’s doing to you, had to suspect before Roxy told him, had imagined doing this to you and you going slack-jawed over him, you, the stoic poker-face prince, all hot and bothered. And fuck it if that’s not so spot on it’s beyond ironic.  
  
You fist your erection, pumping it through your boxers, determined to not give in first and let him win, whatever game you’re playing now. At the very least, he’s giving the definition ‘playing with oneself’ a solid, literal meaning, as he pulls his waistband away and down, inch by excruciating inch, letting his moist tip drag along towards freedom, exposing more and more of that flushed curve. You can see the contour of the head, bulging just below the waistband and you have to squeeze yourself through your own boxers, just below the head because you’re fully hard and standing at attention.  
  
“Let me feast my eyes, too,” he whispers, as though somebody could hear his lewd demand, there in the middle of nowhere and it's endearing to the core. You smirk, swallowing, and you’ll never tell him just how you’d do fucking anything for him… but you think he knows anyway. And promptly, you pull your boxers down, and pull your shirt up, and let him see what he’s doing to you, no matter the slight nervous shake of your fingers.  
  
His eyes glaze over and he’s swallowing heavily, flustered all right. You can feel his eyes on you, even through the screen, as you let your fingers brush through the light brown turf of pubes, just like he had done the last time he touched you, his fingers no more hesitant. “Oh…” he breathes, and yes, he remembers, he’s thinking about it and god you want that evening back.  
  
He pulls at his own underwear, the elastic giving in, and he’s erecting out, standing up at an angle, stomach muscles clenched.  He’s flushed and taut all over and your fingers ache, unsatisfied, as they roam across the heated skin of your stomach, down until you’ve got the base of your dick wedged between the index and middle finger, the leather of your glove harsh against the sensitive skin there.  
  
“Anything else you want?” You press, your voice low, you desperately need to have him guide you, do this to you in some way, through the screen, from a thousand miles away. And he must want you close, too, because his thighs spread as he leans closer to the screen, as though that could bring him closer to you, but the visual is there. His hand sneaks down, too, thumb circles the flushed pink of his cockhead, making it glisten wetly, candyland. Fuck you’re so sucking him off next time you see him.  
  
“Dont touch…” you hear him breathe and shit his accent is even thicker now. You lean over a notch, pulling your boxers and jeans down your thighs, before leaning back to spread for him. And it would feel odd, if he wasn’t so flushed about it, his hand hastily descending, then drawing himself up, fist clenched so tight his knuckles are white.  You feel the ghost memory of his touch up your length, too, because his grip had been sure, bold, demanding.  
  
He tries to go slow, but his hand jerks, impatient and he moans softly. Fuck, you wish you could feel the heat of him beneath your hands. Instead, your nails drag up your bare thighs, leaving red marks, as you try to ground yourself to leave him the visual he wants. “Steady there, bro,” you prompt him when his hand just picks up, breath hitching.  
  
His eyes flutter shut at the sound of your voice, a shudder running through him. He likes it, doesn’t he? The sound of it. In his ear, hushed, just for him. Your cock twitches as your hands pass your hips, and a clear bead of precum dots your swollen red tip like a mocking crown. You see him lick his lips, and it’s the best punch in the gut of a feeling. It takes all your will to drag your hands up, through the trail of coarse hair to your navel, and up under the shirt, where you can bunch it up for him to see.  
  
“Oh god, Dirk—“ he mutters, lust breaking loose. He’s not even trying to take it slow now, hand speeding up as his hips twitch along, and the moan he gives vibrates through you, thank heaven for the surround you bought. He told you to fuck him with that tone and god you want to. Anything, everything. You let him stroke himself, fast, breaths coming short and leaning closer, and fuck you want to tear through the screen and slam him back on your desk till his inarticulate little huffs and moans form your name.  
  
Your hands glide down, you can’t take it any more. “You gonna come for me?” you ask, voice poised like you saw he liked it, and he gives the sweetest, most heated of moans, grips himself under the head to fight it, breathe, shudder, and his eyes fix on you, cloudy. It’s as good as a yes.  
  
You smile, you have to, and he stutters an ‘oh god’ and his hand picks up again, fast, eyes closing – and you wonder if he likes seeing you smile, too, at this point. You should do it more often.  
  
“Dirk…!“ The sound of his voice is begging for you, and he can’t word it, maybe too far gone, but you know how the desperation that’s showing on his face would mirror on your own if you wouldn’t keep it locked in so tightly. Your fingers slip over your skin, feather light against your cock, as his breath would be and he’s moaning for you now, watching attently, and you watch right back, a dizzying spiral of a feeling washing through you because he’s gorgeous, desperate, and his teeth dig into his lip so tightly it could bruise.  
  
Your thoughts are fueled by instincts, flaring forth as you grip yourself tightly, and he doesn’t object, doesn’t tell you no, just drinks the sight of you down like it’s all he’s ever thirsted for. And it’s a heady rush, seeing him like this, stroking yourself and knowing he’s about to loose it because of it.  
  
He doesn’t hold back any more, at all. He strokes himself hard, shoulders stiffening, and his hips drive into his hand, twice, thrice- “oh- Oh!” and he groans, fails to take a breath, eyes locked on you. A groan, hips locking, and suddenly he’s spilling, mouth wide and breathing harshly like he just remembered how to, though you just want to lean in over him and make him forget all over again.  
  
You feel yourself rigid against the glides of your hand, pushing down hard as though that could put you back in your place, in control, but you’re only slipping worse. Thick ribbons of white splash down on his abdomen and you wish they were yours. You need to mark him, own him, and you need him to let you, kiss back with a bite, let you tatter along the edge of turning the tables on you, because yes, you’d let him, much as you pretend you wouldn’t. It’s part of you being you and him being yours and gorgeous and shit- you loose your train of thought as you see him smear a hand over his heaving stomach, eyes locked on you.  
  
Your orgasm grips you, hard, and you’re spilling, knuckles white and abs clenched and you can’t think any more at all. It’s simple though, you love him, you want him – it all comes down to that. No matter what he’s doing, no matter what he’s wearing, saying, eating, drinking, laughing at. You pump yourself through it and he watches, flushed, eyes lidded and chest heaving.  
  
Your hips lock for the last spasm, and you collapse back, a mess, much like he is, nerve endings flared with pleasure. You’re still collecting yourself as he chuckles, breathlessly, embarrassingly, trying to figure what to say or do, because you’re not actually there and he can’t hide in the crook of your neck. Nor can you in his.   
  
You curl on yourself a bit, just because if feels kind of weird, letting your spent cock for him on display, but he doesn’t seem to bother. He looks away, picks at the green duvet beneath himself with his clean hand, as if gathering courage to say something. It takes him a while, the while it takes you to tuck yourself in, wincing at the mess, but you can’t get the hell up and get the tissues from your drawer across the room while he’s like this.  
  
He fumbles, swallowing, and finally speaks. “I miss you,” he says, simply.  
  
Something deep inside you clenches, hard.  “You too,” you hear yourself say.  
  
It’s a couple of awkward, hushed, good nights later that you finally hit the ‘stop recording’ button and store the file in a coded folder where AR can’t access it. That clenched feeling stays as he logs off, and as you shower, as you slip into bed and bury your face into the pillow he used to sleep in.  
  
~   
  
You don’t bring it up the next time he logs in. He doesn’t either. You’re both spectacularly good at avoiding to talk about it. Nobody suggests a webcam chat and you kind of stay away from suggestive terms, watch a movie with him online and neither of you comments when the cloudy, hazily hinted sex scene comes along, though it’s kind of clear you’re both thinking of the weekend you spent together. You let him drone on about the main character, about the effects, offer technical feedback, and it’s pleasant anyway.  
  
Except when he says good night, he types a rushed, sudden ‘I miss you’ again, logging off too fast for you to reply and you can’t explain how much your heart swells.  
  
~  
  
“You’re such a softie,” Roxy’s chuckling, and the shoulder you’ve tucked your forehead on shakes. She smells nice, flowery and sweet, you’ve always liked her perfume.  
  
You don’t move, tucked against her side on the park bench in the falling night as she pops another beer open.  It’s cold as balls, because it’s January and it’s at least an hour after sundown, which speaks volumes about you both being idiots for risking pneumonia but you both have your own proverbial boulders on your chests, and no, Roxy’s aren’t an allegory to boobs, much as they’ve plumped up to reasonable size. You’re not an expert on boobs enough to try and figure the size, mostly because the only interest in them that you have is that they’re soft to lean on and she doesn’t mind. Her thighs work well too. She’s on the skinny side, slimmer than Jane, but lovely and proportioned and soft where it matters. Even you can appreciate that about her or girls in general.  
  
“You’re much more clingy and physical lately,” she goes on, taking a sip. “Must be the downsides of the English abstention.”  
  
“Shut up,” you prompt her, snagging her beer to take a sip yourself, sitting up as you do, though you pull her into your side anyway, she had been giving the occasional shiver.  
  
“Hey, aren’t you driving?” she fishes for the can back, her black lipstick worn as she pouts up at you and her eyes are deep and violet in the distant streetlight.   
  
You hold the can out of her reach and to the side, holding her against your side and she doesn’t stand a chance. “Shouldn’t you be spilling?” You prompt her, voice poised. “Or I’ll be spilling.” You dangle the can and the bitter liquid sloshes against the insides of the aluminum walls.  
  
“That’s my last beer!” she protests with a whine, slumping half over your chest as her gaze slides to the floor in defeat, her hair slipping from behind her ear, honey-colored curls  mussed from the violet scarf she’s wrapped in. You knew something was wrong when you saw her standing with a six-pack on the usual pick-up spot. Six-packs always meant she wanted to go somewhere private, no bars, no prying ears. It’s taking her longer to unwind enough to tell you this time though, so it must be something big.  
  
You set the beer down by your thigh and she never notices. “Janey’s got a boyfriend,” she says, quietly.  
  
You don’t move. You know she’ll spill now and you give her her time to, though your arm stays warm around her.  
  
“He’s some college dude, a little bit older, studying marketing or economy or some shit,” she gives a shrug, “I didn’t pay attention. Really sweet and a total poster boy for proper picket-fence husband material. Brady bunch kind of perfect. Bet they’ll have six kids, three girls and three boys and they’ll all be straight and have a fucking poodle with blue ribbons on its head, tail and his straight poodle pedigree cock.”  
  
She had to see the beer you put down, because she reaches over you and yanks it back, taking another sip. You let her, your hand rubs circles into her side, soothingly. You had a hunch Jane would not be rooting for the same team. Part of the why you never tried to voice your feelings for Jake all these years was because you had a feeling she was kind of dancing around him, in her own endearingly shy way. And much as the odds were stacked against you, you didn’t have it in you to go against her, especially since, ultimately, it had been Jake’s decision, not yours.  
  
Or, maybe it had been partially Roxy’s. She knew about you all along. Knew about Jane, too, probably, though no matter how drunk she never spilled, probably sworn to secrecy. It was tough, keeping balance between the four of you, you suppose. You’ve always been fine with staying passive on your end about Jake, after that rap gone wrong – it proved to be less of a hassle for Roxy, too.  
  
She jabs a finger at your chest then accusingly, but it doesn’t hurt, not with a fat inch of padding your jacket’s providing. “This is your fault, too!” She sounds half-jeering, lighthearted, but it only tells you she’s on the verge of tears, her defense mechanisms in full motion. “When Jake flipped out after I told him you’ve been pining over him, she finally gave up…” She swallows, and her eyes are glistering. “I thought if she saw you two finally sharing something special, maybe she’d notice that I kind of-“ She never finishes, a sob rocking her and she stiffens it, but you press her closer, letting her hide in the crook of your neck. The dam breaks and she cries, sobs barely muffled. You take the can away from her for a second time to let her cling to you, pulling her tighter against you.  
  
You don’t offer words of support as she cries, you know Roxy doesn’t need them, being the master pool of them as she is. What she needs is your presence, your tight hold and a reminder that you care and that she can let this out with you because it’s safe. You’ll never tell, never judge.  
  
She’s told you this, so many times; that Jake is going to slip away if you don’t tell him. There is no gain for those who don’t bargain with fate. And you knew she was right, you’ve always taken what you wanted and fucking dealt with it, but this is not the same. Love is different – it’s more than just what one person wants. If Jake had decided he didn’t want you, too, than that could have been you. You feel like a dick for knowing she had set stuff in motion for you, had it all happen, while you can’t do anything for her.  
  
You let her cry herself out, lean in to press your lips to her forehead and close your eyes. It takes a while, but your hands remain warm and soothing around her, all until her sobs are no more than silent hiccups. She fishes through the pockets of her gray coat for tissues, dabbing at her eyes, smearing make up anyway, before leaning closer to wipe off the tear-stains off your jacket, and you’d tell her not to bother, but it gives her something to concentrate on.  
  
“Who doesn’t see you wasn’t meant for you,” you say instead, soothingly, “It just means you need to hold on longer for someone who will.”  
  
She snorts, but it’s shaky, and she fights the tears for a second, before letting a breath go. “Easy for you to say…”  
  
“Yeah it is,” you agree, “been telling myself that for six years.”  
  
“And it never worked,” she offers a weak smile, “so your advice sucks, Dirk.”  
  
“It would have worked,” you counter, pulling her closer, nearly forcing her to lay back against your shoulder and gaze along the gravel of the park path in the darkness. “I would have learned to love Jake only as a friend if I had to, eventually,” your voice drops, softer. “It took me a while to gather my shit together but I got it. It only hurt when he was near. And,” you rest your head against the top of hers, eyes closing, “the thing that hurt most was the fact that I couldn’t forgive myself for feeling this way, fucking shit up for no reason, when we were cool just being bros.”  
  
“it worked out in the end though,” she counters and her voice is full of shattered hope. You know she’d been hoping your happy ending was a prelude for hers, but you want to tell her the story’s not over yet, and she’s the most wonderful girl- no, woman, you know and that there’s bound to be someone who’ll notice it.  
  
You kiss her forehead again. She sighs, but it feels deflated, tired, no longer anguished. She doesn’t cry, just finishes her beer and tells you to take her home. She kisses you good bye on her doorstep and you hug her nearly tight enough to squeeze the breath out of her and she’s got a small, breathless smile as she catches her breath, spurred by the surprise at the force, but it’s there and in that moment you know she’ll be all right.  
   
You never tell her she was right; that you never noticed you hug her more than usual, because you need Jake probably as much as you need your epic showers, or more, and that you have no fucking clue how to bring it up or what to do about it. Among a whole bunch of other shit you can't bring yourself to tell him because you don't really know if he can read you anyway and you'd just be uselessly digging up embarrassing stuff. You hate not knowing how to handle stuff like that. But your issue seems trivial compared to hers and bothering her about it now feels idiotic.  
   
~  
  
You don’t tell Jake about Roxy. This doesn’t have anything to do with him, even you are on the outskirts of it. But you do leave Jane a message in the morning, to call you when her classes are done.  
  
She calls around noon, less giddy than you could have expected her to be. Greeting exchanged, she barely answers with an ‘okay’ when you ask her how things are, which is where your suspicions grow further. ‘Okay’ is not a response a freshly in love girl would give.  
  
“You’re calling about Roxy, aren’t you?” She sounds quiet, hesitant, but knowing.  
  
“Yes,” you were never planning to deny it anyway. “I’m guessing you’ve got some sort of handle on this?”  
  
“A handle maybe, but not the full spoon,” she answers quietly. “I didn’t think she’d take it quite so badly… she wished me luck and logged off awful quick.”  
  
You can tell she’s beating herself up for it, and it’s stupid. They’re both unhappy and ruining a friendship that had been going on for years for reasons beyond their control. “She’ll be okay,” you promise, “just give her some time. Focus on your dude and make him prove himself to be the best boyfriend in the fucking world or he’s gonna have to answer to three pissed off best friends.”  
  
You hear her give a little sigh of relief and when she speaks, you know she’s got a small smile. “I’ll miss her,” she admits in a small, soft voice, “but you’re right, talking with her now feels like I can only burn it worse. You take care of her, yes?”  
  
She sounds motherly, as she always does, caring, and suddenly you do see where Roxy's coming from, how she's perfect family material. One of you has to be, you suppose. “No problem. We’ve got this.”  
  
She lets another breath go, and her tone is less clenched when she speaks again. “What about you and Jake? Everything okay?”  
  
You lean back against the small counter in your kitchen, head resting against the cabinets above as you remember Jake sitting in the spot just beside you, in his boxers, his bare legs kicking out as he extended a hand to you to pull you in for a kiss, his buck-teeth smile impossible to resist.   
  
“I’ve got that, too,” you promise, quieter.  
  
“You should have him over again,” you hear her tone sweet. “Do something special for Valentine’s – or have you got that too?”  
  
Your head swims with possibilities for a moment, before rational thinking kicks in instead. “The flights are a mess, as you know. Would need to call the ship company to detour again and pick him up and they don’t pass by there that often till April-“  
  
“Why doesn’t he just move in there, with you?” she suggests, “he wouldn’t need to take his courses online and you could always go back there in the summer, like a secluded vacation spot.”  
  
“Man, he’d never leave his tropical monster paradise, it would drive him batshit crazy,” you argue dismissively.  
   
~  
  
You don’t bring this up with Jake either later that night. He persuades you into playing a game together and you kick some solid ass at it. He’s got a ranged character and you’re the tank with the butcher sword and you get the mechanics of it down faster than he does, so he ends up complaining you get all the XP. You share the loot tho, give him a killer bow you picked up and he’s jaw-dropping  at how his attack stats skyrocket.  
  
It’s 4AM before you know it and you urge him to log off, you both need sleep and he complains about a paper he’s got due and robs you into saying you’ll fix it over when you wake up before he has to send it.  
  
This time, you say it first.  
  
You’re still on Skype, and you can hear him yawning over it. “Hey,” you call for him. He merely ‘hm’s back, acknowledging he heard you.   
  
“I miss you.”  
  
You feel a sudden rush as you say it, hand clicking the disconnect call button in a flash, before he can reply. But you’re still logged in and you can see him typing and fuck fuck fuck, control alt delete, why won’t this stupid application just die-  
  
His text pops up on your screen before you manage to close it.  
  


> _**Jake English |**  You are mind-blowingly endearing chap. In the rudest of ways ill have you know!_  
> 

  
Your finger hesitates on the button for a heartbeat, and you swallow, feeling stupid for the grin threatening to split your face.  
He starts writing again, then stops, starts again, deletes everything. Now you’re hesitating out of curiosity, and suddenly this application is less stupid because at least it tells you what he’s doing, unlike pesterchum, though you still prefer the old thing out of habit. It’s where you both met, after all.  
  
He starts again, leaves the written text stale for a bit… and then hits enter. He’s offline before you’re done reading it.  
  


> _****Jake English |**** I wouldve told you this by voice but you rudely cut off! I still do want to say it so to hell with building up atmosphere a game date is still a date I suppose. I love you you insufferable prick._  
> 

  
You stare at the text for a long while, your heart in your throat, bombing like it’s set to burst. And it’s stupid, so fucking stupid, how beside yourself you feel at those three little words. This is sudden and idiotic and how the fuck could he just write this over an application online-  
  
But you suppose you fell for him through an online application anyway.  Fair is fair.  
  
That still makes Jake a huge fucking dork though you’re no more than a step behind and you know this.  
  
You store the line into a text file, and save it into the folder with the video, still untouched. You ignore AR’s jeering as you spend the rest of the night fishing through all the pictures and conversations you had with Jake, on external drives, servers, anywhere. By the time morning rolls about your hard drive is a full quarter fuller and richer for a neatly organized Jake English folder.  
  
Satisfied, you go make yourself a coffee as you wait for Jake to wake up and send you his paper to look over.  
  
Neither of you mentions the words he’s left for you, but he’s bubbly and grateful and promises to kiss the bloody daylight out of you for helping him out and you’re chill with that. More than chill. You’re fucking ice cold and you know it, except you also know he knows you know you’ll melt into a breathless mess when he’ll get his hands on you.  
  
Which is a thing that needs to happen, and soon, you settle.


	3. More Than Just Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I'm so sorry for the delay. I rewrote this whole thing in two and a half days, got stuck in the middle, then just wrote away like mad. I don't even. Take it as it is, please, I'm a derp, not any kind of excellent at writing, and Jake is a dork, and life goes on, yeah? Cameo Boxarts and Snowman, too. Hope this was worth the wait...

The thing about Jane, is that she's usually got a way about being right. She doesn’t generally need to point it out, but you noticed that at a collection of moments scattered through time you’ve managed to remember she’d been there to push you into the right direction all along.

Said direction presently being Honolulu, Hawaii.

It’s the middle of March, and it’s warm even by your Houston standards. Or maybe it’s just because you’ve been kind of perspiring more then usual. Boxcards doesn’t comment on the way you can’t sit still, nor about the fact how spectacularly you fail at responding to his small-talk with more than a monosyllabic grunt. Probably because he knows you’re not paying attention to him in the least, your eyes glued to the coastline where you’re looking out for “Mea A’a”. You’ve paid attention enough to know that’s the name of the cargo ship Jake’s on.

“It means ‘adventurer’” Hector had let an impressive lungfull of smoke blow pass your face and off into the sunny afternoon, the roof of his convertible down. You nearly snorted, eyes glazing along the coastline.

Hector Boxcarts was your brother’s bodyguard, back in the days. He was a large, tanned brute with a scowl mean enough to make a regular person piss themselves on the spot. You never learned where he was originally from, but mostly because you figured it wasn’t any of your business. It was his, and probably plenty shady at that. But he did his job to the very end and beyond. He’d been the one to break the news to you. Had been the one to stay with you for the month it took you to process it. By the time you’ve crawled out of your shell enough be ready to actively deal with it, all the economic and hereditary shit had been sorted, along with funeral expenses. You were to stay with Roxy’s mom and Roxy, until you turned 18. Which was when you expressed the need for a place of your own. Boxcarts would call for your every birthday and ship you a hideous Hawaiian shirt that was a walking fashion sin to even consider wearing, but he meant well. And he hadn’t said no to your wish to spend the night at his place with a friend now either, so you could take the plane back to Houston the next day.

In truth, this trip was happening precisely a month and three days too late. The small giftbox in your back pocket was probably going to leave a press-print on your ass, but that thought was not deterring in the least. Shit, you’d get a tattoo there if it meant your happiness was bound to stay as long as the ink of the name solely responsible for it.

The port parking space is half-empty, it’s not tourist season yet. There’s construction works going on in the shipyard on the far end of the industrial port, but you barely acknowledge them as you close the candy-red convertible’s door shut behind you. Boxcarts pushes up as well, and you can feel the car gratefully lift a full inch with his weight removed.

Your attention is immediately stolen by the white fleck on the horizon, heading towards Honolulu. “Is that it?” You come around the car to stand beside your driver. You hear the metal flick of a zippo and you don’t need to look to know he’s lit another cigarette.

“Sure as yer heartbeat. But not as fast. Ten nods tops. We’ve got a second dozen of minutes left.”

You give another monosyllabic acknowledgement, gliding over the fact that yes, he picked up you’re nervous. But you can’t bring yourself to lean on the side of the car beside him, your stomach’s convulsing so bad you feel like you’ll vomit butterflies any second.

But of course that never happens. You stand with your hands pushed deep into your pockets in case they decide to traitorously twitch. And why the fuck are you such a mess to begin with?

When the ship is near enough for you to read the washed up paint of its name you swallow, scanning the figures doing chores across the deck to prepare for docking.

“Hey, boy,” Hector calls you, and you turn, realizing you’ve taken several steps closer to the waterline. You manage to frown at yourself before he’s speaking again. “Greet him properly,” Boxcarts is exhaling, his smoke blown away with the breeze. His arms are massive, threatening, capable of bending steel, and yet his words are far from harsh. “Kiss the boy.”

You clench your jaw, half-turned as you were, and stare him down from behind your shades. He knew Jake for nearly as long as you have, had escorted him to the airport every time he came to visit you, and for the first time you wonder if your fidgeting today was nothing more than a cup-de-grace. You wonder if he could tell there was something different about Jake the last time he drove him from the airport to the docks and if he could tell you insisted on coming over to Hawaii this time because you couldn’t bear to be apart from him for an extra day.

You don’t have it in you to deny it, but you also don’t make a sound of acknowledgement. You turn, jaw clenched, and set off to the cargo dock, heart in your throat.

You stand there stiffly when the metal gates descend revealing crates and trucks ready for departure. Sturdy, tanned men come forth to secure the ship, but you’ve only got eyes for the toothy grin beaming your way.

“Dirk!” He’s all aglow, hurrying along as fast as his massive duffel bag allows him to. His hair’s windswept as always, shirt rumpled, he’s got the faintest of stubbles and a crusted cut on his forearm. He’s beautiful. So beautiful he’s gotten half a dozen hurried steps in your direction in before you snap out of it, reaching to help with his bag… but you’re really just reaching for him, and the luggage drops on the concrete floor at your side, despite you both attempting to hold it. And then it doesn’t matter, because you’ve got your arms around him and he’s got his own fisted in the back of your shirt and you can’t press him close enough. You’d press him into you, if you could, so he never had to leave again. Though chances are he'll never need to.

He chuckles, breathless from the way you’re squeezing him, but you bury your nose in his hair. Your lips brush his earlobe on accident really, but you press them there with intent a heartbeat later and he squeezes you harder. Your lungs scream for air and so do his, and fuck you love feeling him breathe pressed so tight against you. “I missed you,” he muffles into your shoulder, and it’s too much, you’re not even processing it anymore. You kiss the shell of his ear again, twice, before you’re hiding in the crook of his neck because you’ve never loved anyone as much as you love him.

You let him take shotgun on the ride back, he’s more of a conversation type anyway, and settle for keeping his luggage company in the backseat, letting the breeze and the sound of his voice soothe you as you attempt to step off cloud nine for a moment. Halfway over though the car stops at a red and you feel something graze your leg. A quick glance down reveals his tan fingers, wriggling up at you invitingly, from where he’s sneaked a hand around his seat to the back. A grin threatens to split your face, but you take it, straining your seatbelt to shift closer as you let your fingers tangle together.  

Inevitably, leaning closer has you swept into the conversation as well, which happens to be about a romantic comedy that’s days from being released on the big screens, much to your dismay. You know you’re gonna go see it and secretly like it, because fuck it if that doesn’t sound like a sound date idea that’ll leave Jake happy and beaming worse than a lightbulb in the dark. Boxcarts had always had a thing for romance movies and the like too. Never had a burlier man watched Mexican soaps, you bet. But you suppose it always took a special man to tail your brother.

The kind of special man who takes Jake’s bag like it’s a gym hand-weight and deposits it in the guest room next to your own, significantly smaller, duffel bag as you and Jake both stand in the doorway awkwardly glancing over the double bed. You try to tell yourself it’s fine, Mr. B.’s not judging. And yes, actually, you’ve had your hands in Jake’s pants and the other way around before, but you thought you weren’t quite so blatantly broadcasting it with your presence alone for him to have picked it up. It’s nerve wrecking.

You move to let him leave with a gruffy ‘good night’ and a pointed gaze to you, but you pretend you’re too busy placing your McDonald’s Fanta cup and glasses on the bedside table to look at him, though both you and Jake echo with a thanks.

Jake’s answer, specifically, gives away he’s a lot closer than what your innate perception of his whereabouts let on. The door is barely closed behind your host before you manage to glance up in time to see him grasp for you. In a split second you’re pinned back against the mattress (you let him, you’d let him take over the world, he’s the king of your own anyway). His eyes are so green and soft enough to awake that dreadful flock of butterflies in your stomach. He melts onto you, limbs’ movements heavy and tired, but his smile is enticing.

“I missed you, too,” you concede, not aware you’ve spoken until it’s out.

He gives you a look, snorts, and holly hell his front teeth reign supreme over those lush lips. You don’t get a chance to decide just how much you’ve missed them particularly, because he leans over and the countdown’s down to zero.

You don’t know how long you spend that night just kissing, sprawled across the bed sheets in your clothes and shoes, but by the time your alarms sounds 5AM you’re still there, and Jake doesn’t even stir, face tucked into the crook of your neck.

It takes you a moment to place yourself. Hawaii, Boxcarts’ – not a dream. He’s warm and real, just as real as the plane you need to catch… but for now you muse how he seems to slot against you as though he’s always been meant to sleep like this, one leg over your hips, other tucked under your  knees, one shoulder tucked just under your armpit, other arm across your collarbone, hand curled up in your hair, loosely. You didn’t think such a tangle could be comfortable…

It’s not, actually. You steer enough to fish your blaring cell phone out of your pocket, when your knees move a notch, and pain shoots from your hips down to the tips of your toes. You grunt, untangling from him to curl in on yourself.

The bed dips behind you a bit as he stirs, curling closer, finally acknowledging the alarm still blaring from your pocket. His hands go for it as if without a second thought, as though he’s done it a million times, and his confidence makes your stomach clench in a bout of warmth. You’re left wondering just how could his roaming your pockets end, were the circumstances different, but it’s soothing nonetheless. In the mean time, he manages to pull the gadget out, fiddling with it minutely, till it shuts off.

“Dirk?” He shifts closer, a warm press against your back that you just want to lean back against. “Are you all right there chap?” His voice is low, whispered against the collar of your shirt, and there’s a little something to his tone that doesn’t quite hit home until you can feel his hand on your hip linger, fingers fiddling with the jeans folds. They inch forward and ow, okay no, not good.

“Yeah,” your voice is raspy as you curl away from his touch. Getting any kind of excited is a very bad idea at the moment. “Just slept with the goods pressed wrong.”

His hand stills in a heartbeat, retreating, but not quite fast enough to maybe stifle a snicker. You turn your head sharply, eyes unrelenting, because it fucking hurts and his finding it hilarious is far from bro-like. He doesn’t wince away from the glare though, his eyes bright and green and softening by the moment. His hair is messed up, and clothes rumpled… you could just kiss him.  “I do apologize chap,” he offers, but he’s still grinning, the asshole. “I merely thought you were beyond such mundane mortal problems is all…?”

You let the edge of your glare go, shoulders shrugging against the still made, but rumpled, bed. “I had miscalculated your added weight to the total and me going slack in my sleep,” you insist, but he rolls his eyes, sitting up and grasping at your arms to help you up as well.  Your feet touch the floor and you hunch over slightly, wincing when he shifts closer and the mattress moves beneath you, but then he’s pressing his thigh to yours, chin resting on your shoulder, and his lips land somewhere just behind the shell of your ear, pressing there.

You want to be less of a looser this morning. You’d save face in a heartbeat if this was a conversation you were having online, drop a couple of allegories, comparisons, even rhymes, turn the tables on him and curl it all up just right to have him doubling over at the other end of the connection, smooth moves too slick to be stopped. But the silence that surrounds you now is not… uncomfortable. Where your skin touches his, where his lips touch you, the mess your hair makes together, the rumpled clothes rumpling worse – it all feels slipping into place. He’s there. There’ll be many mornings you’ll share together. He’ll tease you and kiss you better and see right through the walls you tore down for him, the ones you build up between you for Jane’s sake, for Roxy’s… and for yourself.

You can feel his lips curl softly into a small smile against your skin, his hands coming to link loosely around your middle. “Itll be alright,” he promises.

But not to you.

His bag is checked in, his special weapon permit reviewed, and Hector gives you each a coffee to go, with an added pat to your shoulder that half-sways you. “Take care, boy,” his voice is low, but gruff as always. “And take care of him.”

Your eyebrows lift slightly, eyes darting to where Jake is standing a few feet away, gaze lost somewhere through the big window-pane wall, where the sun is barely rising over the horizon. He looks perfectly calm and chipper, save for the way his jaw is clenched tight, and knuckles turned white as he grips the passport in his hand, the airplane ticket still tucked into it. Boxcarts squeezes your shoulder, not quite enough to be painful, and it grounds you. You nod, once, and the grip lets go.

~

On the plane, Jake is chatty and chipper as he always is. He insists you sit by the window, but ends up leaning onto your shoulder and watching out from it most of the way. Just before you lift off, you let your hand drop over his thigh, palm up. He glances at it for a moment, eyes lifting to you, confused, but you flex your fingers into a grabby motion. He snorts, as though he’s amused the great Dirk Strider, half a flipping celebrity never to be, wants to hold his hand. But when you lift up to leave Honolulu behind, he grips your hand tight enough to leave crescents of nails on your gloves, eyes glossy.

You tilt your temple to his, gripping his hand back silently.

~

The landing is smooth and on time, but retrieving his weapons requires another revision of his permit. By the time he’s finally armed, catching a taxi becomes a problem. Not one you can’t fix though, dialing away.

He perches on his luggage, ankle to knee, and pulls at the long jeans you’ve insisted he wears, because it’s not even spring yet and you’re not keen on testing his immunity system upon arrival. He messes his hair worse, before his hand drops into his lap. You and he notice you’ve been watching him in sync as your eyes meet his. His eyebrows lift at you, and he tugs at the pocket of your own jeans, urges you closer.

“We could just take the bus you know,” he suggests, hands absently kneading just below your knees, and you wonder if he really has to be as close to your crotch in public, no matter how casual he might be about it. You’re not exactly complaining… but you’re not focusing any more on the soothing central tune in your ear. Or responding to him, you note a bit late.

He notes it too, of course. “That is… if your tender parts are up for the challenge of public transport.”

You swipe the foot he’s got on the ground to the side, but he catches himself just fine with a tight grip on your knees, grin never leaving. He proceeds to dig his thumbs into your ligaments and you groan, legs less than stable, though if he thinks you’re dropping down to kneel in front of him, he’s sorely mistaking. Phone still held to your ear, you grab him by the nose, pushing his glasses up a notch in the process, and squeeze.

“I thought you’d want to ride to the apartment in style. Not as much style as my car would have provided, granted, but style nonetheless.” He huffs, scowling at the hold you’re not relenting, and moves his hands higher, digging his fingers into your thighs – finding out the hard way that you’ve never been ticklish. “The goods are in prime condition, thank you for inquiring.”

His eyes flash for a moment, and then his hand speeds up, cupping you. Your hands both come down instinctively, grabbing his wrists, and you’re ducking away, grinning, though now there’s a couple of odd looks thrown your way. “Inappropriate much?”

He yanks a wrist free, rubbing at his nose. “You were obstructing my breathing chap! Besides weve never determined anything below the belt was off limits have w- a cab! Dirk, look!” In a flash, he’s on his feet, pointing off behind you, and you automatically turn the call off. You wave the ride down. It drops off a lady in black, in her late thirties or so, and your eyes linger on her large-rim cocktail hat.  Jake readily helps get her bags out of the trunk, of course, ever the gentleman, while you ease yours in.

“Well youll be off for a while,” he smiles, handling the less than light big black bag with a white 8 in the corner. But as it’s deposited on the ground on its wheels, it becomes an infinity symbol. Your eyes linger on it for a moment before you remember it being a gambling company logo, you have a talent for contacts and PR, after all.

“Merely a trip home,” she answers airily, her voice velvety. “You yourself sound as though you’re a long way from home yourself.”

You close the trunk, and Jake gives a small, quiet laugh from beside you. “Not at all actually,” his hands cram into the pockets of his jeans. “This is my home.”

You climb into the taxi after him, hand finding his, and you don’t let go for the rest of the ride, your chest clenched tight, as tight as he’s gripping you back.

~

It’s 4PM when you unlock the door to your apartment, and he stumbles in first. He drops the larger bag in the middle of your room, the smaller one half a step further in, and then drops face-first into your bed, gathering an armful of smuppets as he goes and not caring one bit. Nothing stops him, either, Squarewave's still out for the time being, but this time for upgrades. “Finally…” he grumbles into the pile of plush rumps.

You leave your bag by the bathroom door, it’s mostly just the change of clothes you had slept in and a toothbrush anyway, and you can get the laptop later. Your steps won’t take you beyond the threshold of your room though. You lean there and watch him in the afternoon light and take him in as he is, exhausted from two days on the road, from leaving his whole world behind, from braving it out in front of you – all to find a future here, with you. And this is the same guy you fell for, before you figured you even could like guys, same guy you figured you’ve blown your chances with and prepared to bunker down for the rest of your life.

He’s yours though. You’re his. This is no longer just your home, he’s not just crashing for the night. He’s here to stay.

He shifts, feeling your presence probably, and glances over with a tired smile. “I say… that looks far from a comfortable resting position there,” he muses, and there’s an offer in his voice.

You savor it all, him asking for you, him being here again. You’re being a sentimental fool, you feel like you’re going to hiccup rainbows any minute if you don’t bury your face somewhere where he can’t make you melt with those green eyes of his. You push off the frame, your knee dips the mattress beside his, the other follows a moment later on the other side. One elbow’s beside his, the other mirrors it on the other side. You pull your shades off, pressing over him, face hidden in the crook of his neck from behind. He lets a breath go when you press him down like this, leaning his head against yours. After a moment, his arms shift to link over your back, and you push some smuppets away, to let him breathe. You’re fully aware you’re slightly taller, bulkier, but he can take it. He’s yours, and your lips meet his neck softly.

“How is this more comfortable though?” he chuckles after a moment, his voice straining a bit from you pressing him down, but you kiss at his neck again.

“Your rump’s the comfiest place to press upon,” you counter, half-mumbling against his neck.

He groans at that, straining to swat at your ass. “Rude! I say you-“ his fingers feel the outlines of your backpocket. “You should get your phone out of harms way. I was about to school you here with a round of fisticuffs!”

You let him pry the thing out, tilt your hips to help him. He chuckles into the pillow, doesn’t try to avoid groping at you in the process at all. It’s easy and playful, comforting that he feels at ease enough to. He always had, but that was before you began questioning if your being ok with it could translate to something more and make it awkward for him.

He manages to grab a hold of the elusive shape in your back-pocket, but friezes just as soon. You know why – what he’s touching isn’t the smooth surface of your phone. It’s paper. Blue wrapping paper. He brings the package up over where your elbows are planted, to see the small flat gift box. He inspects it, flips it up between his index and middle finger, before lifting it to you, eyebrows raised.

You smirk down at him. “Happy late Valentine’s.”

“Oh gosh you sap!” He takes a breath, lifts you with it, and laughs it out, flipping the package again. “What in the world possessed you- truly…!”

You resettle your weight on your elbow, letting him bring his other hand up to help unwrap the thing. He turns halfway, and you watch the small awed smile on his face with adoration spreading through your insides like a bacteria. You could kiss him all the way to tomorrow, too. “Roxy said we need to talk more,” is what you say instead, “make this work. Fight or wrestle or fuck the arguments away, but always have each other’s back.”

He glances up at you with a curious glance, not quite catching what you’re trying to say. “Of course well have each others back chum. We always have- oh!” The package tears and a mass of silver spills out. He catches most of it in his hand, he’s got good reflexes, you approve internally. He reaches for it, spreading a couple of silver, beaded lines, and a tag spills from his fingers, the other caught halfway in the beads.

“Dogtags…” he murmurs, turning to eye the wings pattern on the back of one of them, finger tracing it. “Did you engrave them yourself?” His voice is soft, awed.

“Yeah.  Metal working’s up my sleeve.”

He gives you another, slightly flustered glance, and turns the tag, to read his own name and birthdate on it. “But i thought you said valentines was a commercial holiday… im afraid i didnt get you anything…”

You resettle your weight on one elbow, catching the tag he’s left dangling in lieu of inspecting the first. “It’s cool, the tag you’re holding is mine. This one’s yours.” You turn the heart pattern up for him to see, and he reaches for it, sliding a thumb through the finework. The back of it has your name, and birthdate, and he thumbs those, too, after reading them.

You reach for the box he’s dropped, and rattle it over his chest until a simple, green-dyed key falls out. He misses it completely, pawing for it to see what it was, before holding it up, and you can tell he’s still sinking it in.

“Soldiers use tags to be recognized, should they go M.I.A.,” you go on, resettling back over him. “Two tags per soldier. One of them to keep on at all times, the other for whoever to tear off and bring back to the battalion as proof of death. But since we’re not going to war, I made us each one. Just to remember why we’re here today and that… it’s all worth fighting for.” You swallow, watching him, and his eyes turn to you, still awed.

“If. You think it’s worth fighting for. The key is for the front door,” you shrug, not quite devoid of nervousness at it all, but you’re stoning up behind your usual façade, the odds should still be on your favor to come out on top of this.

Jake lets the tags and the key drop to his chest and turns under you the rest of the way. The sunlight’s fading outside and your eyes hurt less in the golden hue spilling over your bed. He watches you silently for what seems to be an eternity, and you’d consider you’re being yanked around if it wasn’t for the way his hands sooth over your sides, subconsciously. Whatever’s eating him up, is building up in his chest, and you know it’ll be awkward for him and you, and you just want to kiss him to relieve him of it, but that’s not what you promised to Roxy. You might have mastered the hiding part for the last six years, but it can only make things worse in the long run.

“I… told you.” Jake breathes out finally, picking at the hem of your shirt. “The words i mean.” He fiddles, but you keep your eyes on him, unrelenting. “I always liked you. I mentioned we ought to be dating way back when we were what thirteen? Jimminy that sounds like a lifetime ago...” he pulls at you then, face heating up, and he’s not meeting your eyes – he wants to hide from what he’s got to say, is what you gather. “I thought wed just be friends. You and i. That i would fall for a movie-like romance thatd have me bloom into this prince charming…” he scratches at his chin then, nervously. “It took me a while to wrap my noggin about why your opinion mattered the most and why i always wanted to be near you to impress you… i cant believe weve-“ he gestures, unsure himself what for. “How did we get here dirk?” he muses, deflated, but with a tired smile, hands coming up to cup your face.

You lean into the touch feeling oddly sentimental and vulnerable, but it’s all overshadowed at how glad it all makes you. “The steps are retraceable if you want a review,” you offer, leaning down because he keeps tugging at you. You lean in, letting both of you hide, curling closer. “But thank you for choosing to stay here with me.”

He grips at you harder, and calls you silly, and tells you he’d do it all again in a heartbeat. You fall asleep like that.

~

In the morning you decide you’re gonna let him get accustomed to things first and foremost. No matter how big a boy he is, and how many times he’s been in your apartment, there’s a different purpose to it now. He looks natural enough, freshly showered and in his boxers, open shirt and new dogtag dangling over the edge of the shank as he leans over the surface of it, bottom perched on a barstool in your kitchen. You think he’d always lived here, if it wasn’t for the way he keeps spacing out, probably going through his morning routines back on the island.

“Cereal?” You offer, in your boxers yourself, towel around your shoulders and hair down. You both look as though you’ve just had the most amazing sex all night long, except for the fact that you didn't, it’s barely nine in the morning… and the fact that you just had the most chaste shower ever.  You’ve showered together before, but you weren’t sure initiating anything would do his settling mind any good, so you slipped into the shower by yourself, while he took care of business on the toilet and brushed his teeth, after which you switched.

You did wait for him with fresh towels though, and toweled his hair. He pecked you for it, and you pecked him back, pulling him in with the towel and all. He smiled against your lips when you did, but in retrospect you should have asked him how he felt. If things were ok. If he’s still sure.

“That would be lovely,” he nods, straightening his spine to watch you make your way through the kitchen, as though he’s trying to memorize where things are. He knows where the utensils are, at least. You take your time, no fast movements, just in case. You take the chocolate puffs you keep for him only, he’s got a sweet tooth to him, you’ve learned a long time ago. It’s part of why you’re not taking for granted that he’s here now, moved in with you, having breakfast with you, while you’ve always thought it would be Jane instead. The way to a man's heart through his stomach and all that.

You pull the corn flakes out for yourself, and offer both the boxes over where he takes them, settles them on the small raised bar counter he's been slumping over, arranging them perfectly. You pass him two bowls and spoons, and he arranges those too, while you fetch the milk for him and the yogurt for yourself. You raise your eyebrow at his arranging, but he merely mock courties for you to sit down, and you do, grinning.

You’re not done setting your ass in the high stool beside him when your phone bleeps, message. “Boxcarts sent the postal number for the boxes,” you inform him, already typing back the reply. “They should be here tomorrow, or at worst Friday.”

He nods, mouth full of cereal. “Do thank him for me.”

Text sent, you rest the phone on the surface and prepare your breakfast meal, just the right amount of flakes vs. the right amount of yogurt. It’s not about the calories, it’s just a force of habit. He, on the other hand, seems to go at random amounts from what you’ve seen in the past. Adds cereal or milk later, no real worry over it not being the same amount of soggy or anything.

You’ve left the radio on for the hell of it, a habit your brother always had. Dave had always loved listening to it, anywhere. He used to say it was the best way to listen to people without asking. He’d point out a woman lulling her head lightly to the tune coming out from a shop, ask you what does that tell you about her. He’d ask you why people listened gladly to some tunes, no matter how bizarre or unusual, while others slipped away as fast as they came, no matter how appealing at first. Dave had a thing for music, for how to bend popular culture, and it’s something you’ve secretly never given up on, either. The morning buzz of the radio is your own reminder to never forget that dream.

You wonder what Jake’s dreams are. Not the fantasies, not the movies – you know more about those than you’re willing to admit. What you want to know is what he wants do in the long run. Does he want to go back to the island for summer? Does he want to change schools, pick up some sport, anything. But at the same time, maybe it’s all still too raw. So what you ask him instead is, “Is there something you wanna do today?”

He munches on the spoonful of cereal, eyeing you thoughtfully. “Lets stay in. Watch a couple of movies perhaps?”

You pause, eyebrow lifting. “Is there some you haven’t seen?”

“Surely a few- but!” He turns in the high chair, the dogtag gleaming in the morning sun, and your eyes linger there. “Ill let you choose chum hows that?”

Your spoon swirls back and forth in your bowl, color you intrigued. “To avoid arguing about it?” You offer, smirking, “and settling the argument in unconventional ways?”

He narrows his eyes at you, his own spoon poised up at you as if offering a challenge. “Just how unconventional are we talking here?” He gestures, exaggeratedly, between you two. It’s evident a mile away that he’s mocking you. “Merely making sure were on the same page here of course!”

It’s about that time you didn’t have condoms. It’s about you not making any moves on him, even though you’re alone in the place, together, scantly dressed and willing. You have half a heart to smack him across the head for mocking you while you’re trying to be sensitive to his adapting to the new environment.

You grab at the offending spoon, and his hand around it, holding it steady. “Pages can be turned, but you shouldn’t read more than you can process at a time.”

One hand blocked, he promptly reaches over with the other, hooking it under your own tag chain and ow, wow, ok him yanking you closer by it means business all right. “How about we stop dwelling on theory and skip to practice chum?” He has the smirk going on for him, and you’re still trying to process just how it ties you up inside so good that you can’t help but gravitate closer.

You brace yourself on his thigh, and he shifts closer, to the edge of the seat, for you. “Now?” is all you can ask – and he nods, grin deepening.

“If you think youve got the grit for it that is.”

You groan through your own grin, and you’re both wrestling for the spoon a moment later.  He shifts just so, and you would have slipped, had you not had the reflex to clench your muscles just right to counter gravity. The flex of your stomach seems to distract him, just enough for you to yank the spoon away victoriously, flipping it through your fingers. It’s all short-lived though. He’s all green eyes and firm intent as he slips off the stool and reaches for you, fingers sliding up the line of your neck to urge you closer and you’re slipping off as well, spoon and breakfast all forgotten on the raised countertop as his lips press up to yours.

He stumbles, twice, when he tries to pull you back towards the bedroom, and you both laugh at it both times. You’re not quite sure which one of you sounds more eager than nervous, or the other way around. There’s an electrifying sense of pleasure when you reach beneath his open shirt to pull him closer, the fabric rougher and worn, as opposed to his skin sliding smoothly under your palms, tan and tan-lines and shy pale middle all the same.

Jake, to his merit, seems to like the tags, can’t keep his fingers off yours as he pulls you close, thumbs gliding down against the silver beads as he lets his hands descend, your skin on fire wherever his fingers wander.

It’s all got a spell to it this time. You’re not trying to hurry, trying to go for the sure spots, just to keep him in the haze, afraid he’ll change his mind or sober up. He doesn’t fight any of your touches, doesn’t stifle his breath, doesn’t care if you’ll mock him later for it or not.

You push past the seam of his lips effortlessly, going deep, and slow. He tastes like the chocolate puffs and molten heat and you tease his tongue up, gliding along the downside. He shudders, bodily, presses you firmly into the frame, and your hands splay down his back, pressing him closer just above the line of his boxers.

He tilts his head just so and you’ve got him prying your lips open. He urges the action into your mouth, flips, teases your own tongue back, reverently. His aggressiveness flares you up in all the right spots, but you know it’s fueled by nervousness. You press him off you by the hip, retreating enough to barely nibble at his lips, enough to make his breath shudder out of him, teasing him on purpose. “Bed?” you suggest. It’s still March, your feet are getting cold. Maybe a bit less literally, too.

He lets you urge him towards it a step, two, perhaps composing himself, trailing your towel behind, but suddenly he’s grasping at your wrist, hard. “Lube?”

You’ve never heard him say the word before out loud, he’s always been skirting about sexual terminologies as though they required some sort of courting and hushed setting to be spoken. Feeling him whisper it breathily against your lips makes heat bolt down your spine and coil in one bold surge in your groin. “I’ve got both,” you whisper back, fearing he’ll inquire about condoms next, too, “in the drawer.”

He nods, swallows, and pulls at you, but you’re the one grasping his wrist now, stopping him. “You really wanna do this?”

Green eyes flutter open to level you, despite the heated haze they’re lit with. “You dont?”

“Not if it ends up in ER for emergency stitches.”

He rolls his eyes at you, bringing up the cut on his forearm for you to see. It’s clean, the crust scrubbed off, healing up healthily. “If I could stitch up my own arm then youll do just fine taping shut a wee tear down there should there be any,” he insists, flicking at your nose with a grin, “its not embroidery science you know.”

The flick leaves your glasses askew and he proceeds to take them off all together. It dawns on you that he wanted to do this in the bedroom because the blinds are still half down here and your eyes can take it. You still glare at him when he takes the eyewear off, folding them and leaving them on the table. You don’t appreciate him ignoring the severity of rightful preparation, no matter how much the budding heat in your crotch insists you move things along already.

“I trust youve read so much on the subject youre an encyclopedia on safe sex in the flesh by now,” he grins further as he straightens up again, nose to nose with you, and swallows. Fuck… you could bite that Adam’s apple.  “So come on chap,” he never stops grinning, does he? “Show me.” He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, lets it slide down. Before it hits the floor, you have him in a liplock, and you can’t even recall lunging for him. All you know is, his chest had flexed just so, his hips cocked against yours and you caved in, avalanche.

He eases back with you and you’ve got him nestled back against the pillows just like all those months ago, after Roxy’s birthday. He didn’t have that poised, beckoning gleam to his gaze then, didn’t pull you down by your tag, didn’t trap you right where he wanted you, legs keeping you pressed close. You sink onto him, bury him under you and grind, slowly, aligning just right. He’s got a sigh on his breath and a smile on his lips when you kiss him, and the drive to grind right back and then some.

He reaches between you first, glides a thumb across your still confined tip, and you shift your hips closer, pleasure shooting up your spine. He doesn’t let the touch off, just teases you worse and worse until you’re left with a wet spot in your boxers, a shudder to your breaths to match his and no choice but to shift your hips away, or you’re sure you’re not gonna last enough to burst inside of him.

He laughs at you, the bastard, and you grip at his wrist with a vengeance, pinning it back with force to get your displeasure at… the pleasure he’s submitted you known. He doesn’t seem schooled by it though. The more pressure you apply, the more he arches, smirk gone, in lieu of biting his lip, face flushed. He’s one taut line under you, all arched muscles, piercing green eyes and tenting boxers. His hand follows your gaze down, fingers hooking into the elastic band and easing down. You free a hand to help him, pull the garment down, holding your breath as you let a thumb ghost along the throbbing line of his flushed cock.

He slumps back with a sigh, hips arching up for more, but you slip down, get his boxers off, gaze glued to his every move, every breath… and he knows, because he watches right back, knees curling up to obstruct the view, before he playfully kicks you in the shoulder. “Get a move on will you?” he chuckles, flushed, tossing a smuppet in your general direction, which you catch without a problem. “And do get those obstructing undergarments off id like a clear view of the local monument.”

He thinks he's sighseeing now? Cute. You lower the smuppet to tease him with it, running its nose up his thigh, till he swats at it, kicking at your shoulder again- but you’re ready for him. You intercept the blow, twist your grip till you’ve got him spreading up underneath you, and shit you need to be press all over him. You climb up again, leaving your boxers in your wake, and he sighs, smiling at the look you’re giving him. He cups your face and pulls you closer, up to his lips, and dives in, mercilessly, not letting go until you’re sure you’ve forgotten that breathing against his mouth, with lungsfulls stolen where chance allows, is not the default breathing pattern. It’s got to do with him lining up to you, flesh to flesh, and your skin’s on fire. You could grind against him like this forever, just feel his shaft strain against yours, where you can kiss his lips into oblivion and beyond.

He has to push at you, breathless, to keep your mind on track. “Let us move this along sweetness,” he grins against your lips, which you bite because what the hell kind of a nickname was that. “Id love to feel you push deep inside of me before i happen to spill all over you here on accident.”

“I see no problem with that,” you manage, because shit your prime priority is seeing him coming all over himself, because of you, no matter the setting. You grind harder against him, just because the memory of him coming gets you off in ways you had the pleasure of imagining over and over again, for the past months.

He pushes at you, hard, his tip smearing moistly against your hip, but he holds you up and out of reach to kiss him. “I see a problem though,” he swallows, holding up his chin even though his hips grind shakily against yours. “Youre not filling me are you?”

Challenge, is it? You feel your blood boil. Shifting, you press along the cleft of his ass and his breath catches. He shifts his hips as well, angles so your tip is pressing just right, and pushes back. It’s hot, nearly too much, even if it’s not going anywhere and you both know it. But it’s still an echo of the pleasure you both want. You thrust against him, slip and slide, and he rides it, wants it, grabbing for you.  “Bloody… come on dirk! Dont tease me...!”

You’re teasing yourself, too, though. You kiss along his jawline, gently, missing the stubble he’s shaved off that morning, and balance enough to reach into the top drawer of your bedside table. You rummage around, catch a condom package with your index and middle finger, secure the tube with the thumb and push the drawer closed with the fist, mentally pleased with your one-handed fishing. You sit back slightly, just out of reach, and Jake sighs, arching after you by reflex, wanting more. He steels himself a moment later, dropping down and running a hand through his mess of a hair, eyes glazed over.

You have to grin at how disheveled he looks. And tense, suddenly. You reach for the smuppet he threw at you and watch his eyes widen when you run its nose up his exposed cleft, still moist from your precum. He groans at you, attempts to connect his foot with your wrist and shove it away, but his coordination’s not the best, you easily dodge him.

He promptly leans up, bringing his hands into the equation, and it all becomes a struggle to get the smuppet. He manages to flick his wrist enough to pull it away, fingers lacing with yours as he forces you back on your heels, glaring, but not without a grin betraying his amusement. “Im beginning to think youre being a wet blanket here. Do be a dear and get your cock up my bum in the near future im getting a wee bit frustrated over here.”

“I noticed,” you smirk back at him, letting the pressure in your right arm go, and he come stumbling at you, catching himself against your chest. It leaves his ass perked up in ways that make your balls pull tight, holly shit. This needs to happen. Now. You secure him onto you with a hand against the back of his waist and… yeah okay, you can uncap the lube with the other hand alone, you can do this…

He must hear the pop of the plastic cap, and settles down against you, quietly. Your lips have gone dry, so you lick them, and let the tube fall down onto the covers as you bring the slick fingers closer, your free hand gliding down to spread his cheeks apart. You feel your cock twitch at the feel of him, the sight of him like this: you’ve never touched him like this.

His hips give a twitch at the gel, you haven’t warmed it up because you’re an idiot. You’ve read all about that, made notes even, and here you are, too entranced by his spread ass cheeks to remember. You quickly smear it about, let it warm up… though you can’t but let your fingers slip over and over the small dip, breathlessly. It pulses under your fingers. You let them press there, just enough pressure to not slide away, and you can just trace the tight ring of muscles. It contracts, pulses… and fuck, you want it to open up for you, can barely wait to feel it pulsing around the dip past the head of your cock, gliding down all the way to the base…

Jake grips at you harder, the quietest of moans riding his breath, and you turn, kissing the side of his neck with a hard press, soothingly. Your fingers play with his entrance, spreading the gel with a leisurely pace, and his breaths grow quicker, frustrated, hips arching up for your fingers to get a move on all ready.

You get more lube, remember to warm it up this time, and circle the opening again, once. It’s looser, your fingerbud nearly slipps in on its own. It takes a bit of pressure to it and- you’re in to the first knuckle, the inside of him hot and soft-

He clenches up around you instantly, tight as hell. Your cock gives a twitch, gods you’re flushed and breathless just as he is. “Hurts?” You question, your voice soft and hushed, just a breath against his skin.

“Its all right,” he insists, just as quietly. “Thats one finger or-“

“Yeah, one.”

“Fiddlesticks…” he groans, “feels like a whole lot more.”

You want to tell him this was his idea, and that you can always just try and suck him off instead, but you also have to admit to yourself you’ve never been harder in your life. The heat inside of him, the way he’s sucking your finger in- you think your knees might have turned to jelly. “Should I stop?”

“No!” He’s adamant, sneaks a hand back at your wrist just in case you’d have the smart idea to pull back. “Let us just… pace this. Ill… relax…” He buries his face in your neck, going slack just a notch, and the pressure around your digit lets off. He urges you in, and you press further, not stopping until it’s fully in. He lets go a breath against your neck and you kiss wherever your lips can reach, tense and turned on.

“You need a breather there?”

“Just an incy bit,” he mutters. He shifts his hips a bit, and you slip your finger out just a notch, just enough so he feels it when you slip in. He grips at you urgently.

You frieze, let a breath go yourself. “Bad?”

“Good…” he counters, just as breathless. “Again…?”

You slip your finger in again, and he holds his breath. The second time he lets it go. Fifth he pushes back, experimentally, and it gets easier after that. Somewhere between twenty and thirty you have a rhythm, no more wincing on his part.

You shift, taking him with you, letting him settle in your lap, and he smiles at how careful you’re trying to be. He pulls at the nubs of your ears, where you’ve gotten plug piercings two or so years ago, and pulls you down to bite at your nose, not enough to hurt, but enough for you to scowl, slapping his ass.

“Oi-“ he protests, letting go of your ears enough to link his arms behind your neck, and you hug him back, one-handedly, tight. You’ve got a secret agenda to it though. You shift your finger, just past the second knuckle, up and towards you, pressing down against the soft slippery walls. You can barely feel the oval shape of something firmer just beyond- and you think you’ve nailed it, because Jake goes rigid against you.

He’s shuddering again when you let off, but it’s a different kind of shudder. The kind where you can feel his erection returning, and he’s unabashedly pressing it against you, too focused on the pleasure point exploding inside of him.

“What- … did you do?” He breathes, eyes lidded, “prostate?”

“Yeah.”

You press it again, and he arches onto your fingers, flushed. “Yeah… yeah were doing this chum,” he’s murmuring, hands roaming up to card through your hair, possessively. “This feels bloody fantastic…”

You get more lube, add another finger, more of a smirk curving your lips as you undo him bit by bit. Muscles can be stretched with a paced massage, and you’re nailing it, so to speak. In truth, you’ve cut and filed your nails that morning, just in case – he’s never going to catch you unprepared again, you’ve taken it upon you to make it your life mission. Along with making him the happiest island dude come-to-town you can. And you’re a Strider, if the last of your kind, and you can do a shitload of things.

Jake’s hands clench painfully in your hair when you slip the third finger in to the hilt. You give him a moment, intend to give him three, actually, but he shifts half-way through, slips up and slides down. Twice, three times, before his grip softens.

You kiss him, gently now, because you don’t think you’ve ever seen him this vulnerable. You don’t think he’s ever let his guards down like this with anyone else either. There’s always been that veil of optimism at the very least. But this is him, pressed close to you, letting you open him up, because he trusts you. And it’s fucking working, slowly, but it is. Emphasis on fucking.

He’s thrusting his hips in time with your hand, you can feel the ring of muscles stretch to let you slide your fingers in, suck them in, cling, when you’re pulling out, and gods you wish it was your dick getting the treatment. Your cock’s settled into a steady, hard state, pushed into second place of interest to let you concentrate, but Jake’s sighs are intensifying, he can’t stand still for the life of him. He kisses you, or at you, sinks his nails into your shoulders, smothers his fingers down your back and it’s kind of like you’re already inside of him, deep inside, just by watching him.

He likes it, he’s biting his lip, biting yours. “I believe im set for the ride chum,” he breathes, and it’s like your body’s tuned to his, no space for nervousness. You smile against his lips, and lean down, taking him with you, sideways. You sprawl against the bed and he sighs when his back hits the bed. You pull to loom over him again, and there’s a moment of silence between you, where you’re stuck on the thought that he’s the best thing that ever happened to you, while he's catching his breath. You kiss him again, far gentler than you ever have before.

It’s different, from the first hype you’ve had, there’s less hormones and more heart, for lack of better comparison. You thought you had to plan this whole thing up ahead to be perfect, but you can’t help but love the little hiccups, the way he smiles suddenly, tugs at you, scratches, pulls. It dissolves the tension, it feels more real and less of a fantasy you’ve woken up to when you were thirteen, boxers soaked. He’s the unknown variable to all of your plans, and you want to change them all to make him fit, because the outcomes are always that much better. Perfect.

“Should i do the rubber honours then?” He wants to know, and it’s your turn to laugh because what kind of a doofus would call putting on a condom an ‘honour’, like it’s some kind of medal. Except you’ve kind of been there, you know this is not some kind of romp on the side. You paw at the covers for the plastic package, offering it over, half intrigued.

“Be my guest.”

“Not a guest,” he insists, tearing the package open and shaking the transparent slimy fold into his hand. “Didnt you insist i was to move in?”

He did his research on it, because he does the whole procedure to a t, complete with squeezing out the air from the tip. Beyond the admiration for his technique though (which you’re dying to ask if he’s used a banana to try or just tried it on himself, which is fucking hot-), the fact of the matter is, that you’re pretty much hurting from how much you’ve been holding back. He gives you a few gentle strokes, his fingerpads rougher than yours, hands just a little wider, but so, so good that you’re curling over him, onto him. It’s his turn to be amused at how you hiss when he gets the stretchy plastic down over the crown of your cock. It’s a mad sort of constricting, and hot, the more he struggles to get it pass. He curses, softly.

“Golly wilkers- how big are you again chump?”

“Six and a half,” you sigh. It’s on, slid to the root.

“Are you quite sure? Ive stretched this rubber thin!”

You chuckle, kissing at his neck. “I’ll get you a measuring tape later,” you promise. You don’t think you’ll remember, he’s got you hard enough that all you want to do is fuck him out of his mind.

He reaches down, and his knees rise on each side of you, you can feel them with your eyes screwed shut, with your heartbeat in your throat and thoughts blank for anything but him. He gives you a stroke, light, one that you can barely feel with the plastic membrane between you, but you follow, hips shifting, contact. He helps you align, and it’s slippery, you think you might have used way too much lube. You pull yourself up on one elbow, pressing against him just to nail the spot. His eyes meet yours, and he’s flushed, determined, but taut with tension. You want to frame him like this, remember this moment forever. He opens his mouth to speak, watching you, but he can’t seem to say it. You lift your eyebrows at him, offering him another chance, but he sways his head no.

“Shall we?” he offers instead.

You lean in to peck him on the lips and linger there, as you slowly press in. His breath hitches, but his hands dig into your buttocks when you halt. You stay put anyway, lips soothing his. “Relax,” you breathe against them.

It’s agonizing, inching the bell of the head in. The only thing you can tell he feels is pain, with his hands fisted, his thighs taut around your hips and his brow stuck in a frown. He barely lets a breath wheeze out of him and no. This isn’t cool. You’re not doing this.

You back off, feeling like an idiot for going along. Maybe there’s something you didn’t read, maybe there’s a thing to prepare him better, maybe the information you had wasn’t complete…

“Dirk-“ he begins to protest, surprise clear in his tone, but you kiss him to silence. This is not what you brought him here for. Not to hurt him. And even if it were about getting off, there’s other ways.

“Dirk why did you-“ you kiss him again, urgently, but he pushes at you, enough to turn his head sideways, let you shower his cheek with kisses and hide in the nook of his neck, whispering a barely audible sorry.

He friezes for a moment, before gathering you closer, hugging you tight. “What for chum? It was going all right!”

“You looked like you were being impaled with a baseball bat, more like,” you groan against him, not sure if you’re more disappointed at yourself or for letting him down, or both.

He chuckles though, nudging you in the ribs. “Youre not quite THAT hung,” he counters. “And I knew it would hurt but its nothing I cant handle. Its supposed to get a whole lot easier!”

You know, that’s what every guide you found said. But it’s different when it’s all happening in the flesh around you. Namely because he’s that same variable you can’t predict. He nudges you sideways, and you let him push you off, rolling to your back, figuring this whole excursion was at the very least postponed and he needs to get all that lube gunk off-

But he climbs on after you, straddling you, and your eyebrows shoot up, eyes locked on his. He’s seriously set on getting laid?

“Maybe the angle was wrong,” he shrugs, as though he’s talking about the weather. “If i ease down a wee bit at time itll be all right.” He pokes at your cheeks, forces your lips into a smile, smiling himself. “Cheer up ol boy were becoming men here!”

You swat his hands away, but the grin stays. Holly shit, how can he be so ridiculous in any given situation. He’s one of a kind, and there’s no one else you’d rather be sharing this with. He waggles his eyebrows at your incredulous grin, and subtly strokes you, as though it’s not your dick and you can’t tell. He has a whoops-my-hand-slipped kind of expression, too. You groan at him, reaching to cover his face with your palm, he’s horrible. The best kind of horrible. Bestest-

He leans back from your hold on his face, and he’s drawing you up, aligning. He’s biting his lips, the grin gone, and you know he’s not giving up. Never.

He pushes down, and it’s your turn to swallow. Your hand, left in midair, falls to slide down his side, soothingly, the other following up, both resting over his hips, thumbs circling gently. For the longest time, you feel like it's not going anywhere, like you’re just gonna burst against him, because he’s all tense, wiry, muscle, thighs open and half-hard cock all on display and- oh. Hang on. It dawns on you that you should do something about that, stat.

You take a hold of him, gently, as you’ve done before on the few heated times you’ve shared. You know how he fits in your hand, how he arches just before he comes, how he throbs and where it feels best. You exploit all the knowledge your hazy, hastily pleasure-driven brain allows you access, Forskin down, squeeze below the head, thumb up along the frenulum and-

Jake gasps above, eyes glancing down, mouth falling open as if to say something, but instead he relaxes that one bit more and you’re sliding in. “Oh gosh-“ he’s breathing, you can barely tell, because your world just exploded with pleasure. The tightness is blasting your brain into next week, you crash back against the bed heavily as the feeling washes down your legs and up your spine. But you can feel his thighs shake and you dig your fingers in, to ground him, reassure him maybe. “You all right?” you manage, swallowing a shudder.

“… will be…” he promises, takes a breath, two, and then he’s pushing back down.

It’s torture, how much you physically need to push up into him, but you know you’d never forgive yourself if you did. Beyond the need to let him pace it on his own terms, you’re also a Strider, and Striders lose their virginities in style, if urban legends hold any truth to Dave’s. Not that you have the clarity of mind or the will to recall that particular story because at the present, you’re pretty much fully occupied trying not to blow your load, because your hunk of a boyfriend just reached touchdown, balls-to-butt. He’s flushed, ribcage contracting something fierce, and you want to hold him, give him what he’s making you feel, somehow, anything and everything. The tag glimmers on his chest, sunlight’s rising through the blinds – he’s half aglow with it.

“I love you,” you hear yourself say, breathlessly.

He doesn’t seem to react at all, just blinks down at you, watching you for the longest of moments. You’re beginning to think you only thought it, when he reaches to gather your hands in his, pulls them up to his face, and kisses both of your palms, swiftly, hiding his face into them. You can feel him smile against your hands, and your lips tug up, too.

“Same here chap,” he mumbles, peering over them down at you, gaze soft.

Something inside of you melts completely. You think it might be the last of the barriers you’ve ever erected between you.

“Good to know you love yourself,” you tease instead, combing the locks sticking to his forehead, as much as his hold on your wrists allows.

He bristles, drops your hands in lieu of catching your nose between his bent index and middle finger, squeezing. You grasp at his wrist because he freed your hands, a miscalculation on his part. He lets go easily though, lets your fingers lace together, before he lifts off, just barely, and everything inside of him shifts, slips and slides all over you. You grip his hands hard, holding your breath, because he’s vise tight and pulsing. In a moment, far too short for you to come to, he moves back down and it’s a bliss injection straight to the brain.

“Youre… moving everything inside of me,” he muses, swallowing hard, free hand pressing yours to his abdomen as he lifts off anew and oh… oh fuck… yeah, you can feel that. It’s like you’re carving your way inside of him, like he’s shaping around you, and it turns you on beyond words.

He rides you, slowly, breath steady, up and down. You help him along as you try to pace yourself as well, hold his hips, meet him half-way. It’s a different kind of hot, the kind where you savor every thrust, mirror every breath, because you know you’ll both get there, you’re both there to stay. Where it doesn’t mind if he slips slightly, if your hands tremble, if he moans under his breath or if you groan – it’s all part of being tuned to the same connection, far from the ones you shared in the past through the signals and airwaves. You know exactly what everything he does means, it’s like sex comes with an in-built user instinct manual. Except with grins and pokes and squeezes of hands applied.

He arches his head back, descending to touchdown, and your hips buckle up at the very base, you can’t help it. He squeezes you sharply, and you choke on your spit, what the hell?

“Hey…” you groan up at him, your own face flushed with perspiration at the effort of making yourself last, which he’s blowing by the minute.

He licks his lips, uselessly, because they dry all too fast with his heaving breath, and angles back, hands landing on your knees. “I think i-“ he trails, and you snap to attention, because shit, is he going to come? If so, can you speed the hell up finally? You’re so hard you’re probably blue down there and… whoah. Yeah… suddenly being able to scope yourself sliding in and out of him is not making holding back any easier. There’s a wet squelching sound to it too, and you’re one breath away from overdrive.

He drags his hips up that way, slowly, getting half of you out, pausing, before lowering down, swallowing your shaft up and you shudder with barely contained pleasure – but so does he. He’s breathless, eyes wide. “I… believe ive got it-!” he exclaims triumphantly. It takes a second shift of hips, faster, and a loud moan, to realize he’s angling your cock against his prostate and loves it. He thrusts down faster, with force, pleasure filling him up, getting himself off with gusto.

You curse, him getting so into it, straightdown craving to have you fill him up, gets you hot around your non-existent collar.  You push up, and he pushes down, and the pace shifts gears. You grab for him, abs straining as you lift up just enough to grasp at his buttocks, fingers digging in possessively, and spread them wide. He swallows, thighs spreading for you to come closer, and thrusts down harder, eyes locking on yours. It’s smooth, rhythmic, more and more hectic by the minute and you’re not sure where all this drive is coming from, but you can’t stop, don’t ever want to stop.

You’re slipping in force, and he groans, tries to ride harder, biting his lips… but he’s not used to the motion. His hips lock underneath your palms and he’s wincing, doubling over. You reach up to meet him half way, one hand keeping his hips placed, while the other goes around him, holding him tight. He’s hard against you, smearing precome between you, and you have no idea wither you should be doing something or stopping, pulling out even. It’s not like you’d mind, you think the sheer slipping out of him could very well get you off.

“You all right?” You whisper, breathily, kissing his shoulder.

“Very,” he mumbles, face buried in your shoulder. “Can we switch though? Just for a bit…”

You pause, eyes fluttering open. “You mean position or disposition?”

He swats at your side, no strength left at all, but you can feel him grin against your shoulder. “Position. But I do recommend the latter next time its terribly mindblowing…”

No, you don’t need to imagine him pushing into you, getting that open “o” face when you’d touch-down, feel his balls against your ass and-

“Yeah, yeah cool. I mean hot. Hot as fuck,” you mumble, holding him tighter. “Hold on…”

He does, and you slowly turn, lay him down while slipping out only half-way. You think you’re a natural at this. You help his thighs up around your hips, and he’s such a mess. Disheveled, hair messed up, chest heaving and cock dripping. You vow you’re gonna make him come with fireworks before you fill him up, you owe him that much.

He extends a hand, brushes your hair from your eyes and gives you a glad, green-eyed look that you need to kiss him for or die, you settle. You bend over him, knees poised, and meet his lips as you slide home. He arches under you, onto you, and pulls you closer with more force than you could give him credit for in his state. “Angle up,” he whispers against your lips, and you nod, barely, hips shifting to accommodate. And when you thrust in, his head crashes back against the pillows, mouth agape with pleasure.

It’s fast, driven, and you can’t tear your eyes away from the waves of pleasure hitting home through him. He grunts, moans, tries to hold it in and fails, losing his mind with each thrust more. You kiss him, when your breath allows you to, and his own rasps past your lips. You didn’t think you’d feel so natural, at ease, focused on him, not with so many things at stake. You’re aware this could have gone so wrong so fast. And you know it’s not just your planning that’s turned it all for the best. It’s him, him gritting his teeth a little, insisting, not letting you give up. You think that, while he’s by your side, you can deal with anything, smash, maim, destroy any and all obstacles, no question. With him, for him.

He grips at you, urgently, tearing from your lips, hips jolting up beyond any semblance of rhythm. “Faster… harder…” he pants, swallows, tries again. “Gosh so close…”

You groan, grip at the sheets beyond him, elbows locked just above his shoulders because his head's way too close to the headboard, and you know you can’t stop yourself any more, not with him begging for it like this. You drive into him, hard, done holding back.

His mouth falls open, he grips at your arms, and it’s like you thrust the moans out of him, loud, sharp, hitting home each time anew. Ten, twelve, and he inhales sharply, arches his hips up into you, grinds against you. His eyes fly open, a warning in them, but it never gets past his lips. He doesn’t make a sound, lungs clenched, as is every other muscle in his body, and he explodes all over your stomach, a strip of come splashing down across his own. Another lands lower and he finally inhales, flushed, still locked all around you, hips jerking up sharply.

He’s beautiful, so messed up, so flushed, completely undone. “Dirk…” he’s breathing hard, riding it out under you, on your rigid cock, because of you alone.

You need to kiss him, mark him, never let go. You gather him into a clenching embrace, no matter the mess, and drive into him beyond any grasp of control. “Sorry-“ you breathe, “sorry I… I’ll-“

He grasps you close, hard enough to leave bruises maybe. You don’t care. You can’t think any more. For a moment everything is a clenching agony of an unstoppable buildup, and you tatter on the edge, thrust after hard thrust, until all you can focus is the rasp of his breath over your ear. You come, a low, loud, breathy moan against his neck, and the whole world dissolves around you. You feel the rubber hold, stretch, and you drive in harder, needing to fill him, beyond anything, with a force you can’t stop.

It fades, slowly, one softening thrust at a time, all until you can feel every straining muscle in your body. Your feet, legs, hips, stomach, back, shoulders, arms, and you collapse over him, your lungs screaming for air.

It takes you a couple of moments to feel his fingers card through your hair, his lips pressed to your temple, his ankles crossed at your lower back. He’s real, this was real. He’s there and with you and the softness of his caresses speak volumes of how much he loves you.

You squeeze him into a hug, hands only half-cooperating, and he chuckles, ruffling your hair, because you squeeze all the air out of him. He reciprocates the gesture, on purpose, until you finally let up, and when you balance up on one elbow over him, he’s just as breathless and smiling up at you as you are smiling back at him.

~

He doesn't forget about the measuring tape. You're half into "Thank You for Smoking" when he suddenly demands it. He gets you hot and bothered in a ridiculously short amount of time to do it, too, but you get your revenge by finally getting him down your throat. It's not your expertise just yet, but he's more than willing to let you keep practicing. You learn you've got something like half an inch on him in lenght, but he's got more to the grit and you call it a truce, no winners declared.

~

His boxes come the next day. He’s still sore, so you end up sorting up most of his clothes into the wardrobe. The storage though, he insists on fixing himself. You still have to help him reach the higher shelves where he has to stretch to place his collection of skulls on.

You feel kind of guilty every time he winces, but not without a strange, hedonistic self-satisfaction in tow. He catches you grinning more than once and swats at the back of your head, grinning himself, and promises you don’t need to be jealous, chap, he’ll fuck the daylight out of you too, just you wait.

~

Less than a week later, he does. After the movie-date at the premiere of that romcom him and Boxarts couldn't shut up about. The movie isn't all that bad, you settle, but what you can’t decide is which 'disposition' you like better, and neither does he, but that’s okay, it’s not like you have to.

~

For Jane’s birthday, you drive Roxy and him up to Washington. She’s quiet in the backseat from when you pick her up, but Jake’s rambling about uni and his absentminded professor and fuck him sideways why did he choose to do his grad thesis on the Mayan civilization with the guy.

You tell him fucking sideways is not necessarily the best way to hit the spot and he swats at you.

You hear Roxy whine from the backseat about her nonexistent sex life, and it’s far from her usual chatty self, but it’s a start. Jake latches onto that, the beacon of hope that he is, and turns her frown upside down in a matter of miles. Though by the time you pile out of the car, and it’s time to meet Jane, the tension’s back.

You slip out of your black Audi last, lingering by your door as you watch Jake gather Jane into a squeezing embrace. She’s alone, no boyfriend in sight. Roxy lingers by her car door too, and for a moment you feel she might break down in tears, ready to take her by the hand. But instead she smiles, eyes glossy with tears, and doesn’t say anything, just extends her arms.

Jane’s eyes well up fast, and she hurries closer, hugging her tight. You let a breath go that you never knew you were holding, averting your eyes to lock the car. Glancing back up, you see Jake leant onto the hood on the other side, chin on hands, grinning at you. You glance sideways, see the girls still mumbling between themselves, not loud enough for you to hear, and linger where you are, glancing down the street, at Jake, anywhere to give them some kind of privacy.

Jane remembers herself after a bit, calls out to you, and you finally glance over, moving in to sweep her up as well.

There’s cake and xbox and backyard barbecues, and it feels like you’re 13 again, attending Jane’s birthday party for the first time, mostly because Boxcarts made you, saying you need to get out. It’s here that you’ve confirmed your crush on Jake, too.

You tell him so, or he pries it out of you, when he sees you staring off over the garden. He gathers your face in his hands, grinning, informs you you’re blushing, and kisses you silly.

~

Jane’s still dating the guy, but he had respected her wish to celebrate her birthday with her friends alone, and you think that gives him points in the cool dude meter. Despite this, Roxy seems less tense, and it has nothing to do with the liquor consumed. She makes Jake threaten to not have sex with you for a week if you don’t sing along when “Drive By” comes on the radio.

As Jake sings how _he swears to you, he’ll be there for you, this is not a drive by-y-y-y-y_ , looming closer and straining his seatbelt, you sway your head at him, pushing him back, and manage to think how Jane truly was right. You never want to be apart from him again, never want to watch that cargo ship sail away from Honolulu without you both on it.

“Mea A’a” or not, yours is no longer a single-man expedition. Sure, it could have been a smoother ride, but ends and means don’t matter. If you look back, you can’t think of a single thing you wouldn’t do again to get to where you are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from the song Jake and Roxy sing in the car, which is ["Drive By" by Train](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxqnFJ3lp5k).
> 
> There might be a prolouge to this sometime in the future, after all, we never covered 'The thing about Dirk'.


End file.
